Moth

Another world hung above us, revealed in tiny pie-slices under each streetlamp.  Flying ants.  Stag-beetles.  Hornets.  Wings, antennae and mandibles, a buzzing churn of rage and fear.  It was fucking disgusting.  And hot.  It stank.  Piece-of-shit neighborhood, urban blight.  There are not enough arsonists.

I clocked him at two hundred yards: the only living thing with less than six legs. Perched against the light pole, knit hat down to his eyes, bandana hooked around his Adam’s apple.  Blue, everything blue.  At a block away, he scratched his arm, spat across the sidewalk and cocked his head.  There was no-one else for miles.  I went straight towards him. 

Let’s talk for a moment about Batesian Mimicry.

Batesian Mimicry is where a creature, commonly an insect, frog or snake, has no sting, but steals the colors of those who do.  The Batesian is a fraud, refusing to accept its role as weak and defenseless: a meal for something stronger.  There is a cost for not being dangerous in this world.  The Batesian’s greatest fear, like every liar, is being discovered for what it is.  And then going the way of all treacherous, unprotected little animals.

He kicked off the streetlamp, moved into my path and looked me up and down.  His eyes shone viciously above the smile.  But for all the rigidness and posture, he was anxious, soft.  His skinny forearms were bare, no ink except for a 'C' under a burn.  No gang would have him, not even a little crew of rejects.  He was a scavenger, making do in bumblefuck.  Friendless, disrespected, hiding in a carnivore's skin.  Trying to scare the things he wasn't strong enough to take.

"Pretty thing," he said.

I walked around him.

"I’m talking to you," he said, and started up behind me, and I got ready to turn.

Let's take a moment to talk about Aggressive Mimicry.

Aggressive Mimicry is when a predator, commonly a spider, is so clearly dangerous it must pretend to be vulnerable and small.  This way, it tempts larger creatures into striking distance, often bringing them down with a single blow or bite.  It has no special markings, no admission of lethality.  Whatever pleasure it takes from its kill must be hidden, along with the body, so that it can repeat the act on something else.  Something larger, less observant, less worthy of survival. 

In the van, I'd changed into a tube top and short skirt.  Sneakers were essential for mobility, so I held six inch heels looped over my shoulder, and walked like I was drunk.  Add the wig and smeared makeup, and I was an unrecognizable mess.  Through his eyes, I had all the markings of prey.  Every signal I broadcast gave him something he wanted: the free lunch he’d been waiting for since day one. 

I turned back at him.  He stopped eight feet away, and we stood absolutely silent.  He was breathing hard.  I placed my hand slowly inside my pocketbook.

“Don't even try,” he said raising his chin towards my bag, taking a half-step closer, “Just show some fucking respect.”  I nodded my head like I was panicked and inched backwards.  He slowly closed the gap between us, and when I looked into his face his cheeks were flushed and he wouldn’t meet my eyes.  I felt into the interior compartments of my bag.  Everything was present.  Long loop of cheese wire with handles.  Sodium peroxide.  Disinfectant towelettes.  Garbage sacks.  Gorilla Tape.  Entrenching tool.  Bone saw.

‘Leave me alone,’ I said in my best pretend scared voice.  I located my syringe within the zip compartment, and pushed the cork off the end.  I got really to stab the needle through the patent leather.

We were just four feet apart.  I looked over my shoulder and made a final witness check.  After that, I let myself smile.

Above us, something winged flew into the cracked sodium lamp and exploded.

Dirt Nap

Ground never feels that hard under your feet.  Not the way it does with a shovel in your hand.  I’d shifted at least four hundred pounds of dirt, kicked a bruise into my foot, ground the skin off my fingers launching soil into the air.  It landed darker now: more little rocks, bits of tree root.  Metal smell.  That dark brown color revealed the last pages of a story I wasn’t really enjoying.  When I looked out of the hole and saw lighter sand on top of that brown, I’d be down four feet, Mike would shoot me, and I would fall through this badly dug hole into whatever comes after.

Digging.  Hard work.  I was tired.  Not happy.  Breathing like I’d done five rounds on a heavy bag.  Mike stood five steps behind the pit, automatic raised, shooting stance.  He wasn’t taking a chance on me.  When I stopped to get my puff back, he gave me an exasperated look like we were out here shifting furniture, and I kept on taking breaks. 

“C’mon,” he said.  “Let’s get it done with.”

Just us.  Out in the boonies.  A few miles off the 563, upland of the Batsto river: Sopranos country, exactly the kind of place you’d imagine a guy like me getting shot and buried in.   Fifteen minutes off the byway.  I guessed Mike wanted the chance to say goodbye on the trail, but neither of us said a word.  I didn’t try to run: wouldn’t have made a difference.  When your time comes, shut your mouth, stand up tall and be straight about it. 

I don’t know if things were the other way around, I would have given Mike any more of a chance.  But I was disappointed.  This big, dumb, get-along lunkhead, always so sweet natured.  He was always the first to volunteer for trouble and for blame.  Even as a five-year-old, he always had my back.  Until now.  Look at this sorry fat Judas, pointing a gun at me.  Making me dig the hole.  I’d never called him my best friend, because it’s embarrassing.  That someone so slow is the best you can find.  But I’m glad I never told him he meant anything to me.  He grumbled at me to pick up the pace again.

“Fuck your mother,” I said.  “Get down in this shit, dig it yourself.” 

Mike frowned, like I hurt his feelings.  “Don’t be like that,” he said.

“Why?  Because you and me got history?  If we was ever friends you would at called this morning and told me to wear comfortable fuckin’ shoes out,” I said, and kicked the spade angrily into the dirt.  God damn it, I thought.  Just like every other worthless piece of shit in this world.  My futile so-called life, scrabbling in garbage for pennies, making no-one happy for an instant, not even myself—now about to end face down in a shallow, self-dug grave under the ugliest state forest in America. 

“You a fucking loser,” I told Mike. 

He made a blowing sound.  “Fuck yourself.”

“This is bullshit.  This is bullshit, Mike, and you know it,” I said.

“It’s orders.  You know I don’t like it, I don’t got no choice in it.” Mike said.

“You’re weak.  You never had no moral character.”

I kicked the spade into my destination.  Inevitably, the brown sand was starting to lighten.  For some reason, there was a weird sensation in my mouth, coppery and bitter, like anesthetic.  I felt a rush of discontentment looking into the ground.  This was your life: this is what you got.  I kicked down on the blade again.  I hit something yellowish and hard.

“What is that?” I said out loud.  I stopped digging to scrape the spade along it.  It looked like bone.  I bent over and ran my hand along it, pushing my fingers into each end.  I took a moment to clear the cold dirt around the edges, but the shape was clear.  Just over half a foot long, bird-thin in the middle, either end all thick with a nobble in it—a leg bone of Flintstones proportions. 

“I just found something,” I said over my shoulder.

“What are you talking about?”

“I think it’s a bone.”

“It’s the woods,” Mike says, “woods is filled with bones.”

I started digging to the side of the exposed bone, opening up the edge of the grave.

“You’re wide enough already,” Mike grumbled. 

“Then shoot me and finish it yourself, you fat fuck,” I said to him.

Mike mumbled something meant to be hurtful, I wasn’t listening.  I stuck the spade next to the bone and pried the sand up around it.  Nothing else came up.  I slammed the spade into the earth wall, hard as I could, then started levering the blade up, widening the mouth of the grave.

“Hey!  What the fuck are you doing?” Mike asked.

The spade drew the sand back from a whole mess of fine little bones, all connected to each other.  I went down on my knees again and started scooping the earth around them.  Some of the dug-up dirt from the edge of the grave started falling in the hole on top of me, and I was throwing that out with my hands at the same time as feeling for all the tiny bones together.  Then, like it reached from of the sand and touched me, I understood what was beneath my fingers.  Jesus Christ.  Perfectly clear.  It was a tiny little hand, all curled up. 

“Mike, there’s a body in here,” I said.

“Bullshit,” he said.  “I’m done with this.  You get digging again, or I swear to God I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out.”

“Like hell you will,” I said, and heard him click the safety off.

I looked at him and opened my mouth.  He was deadly serious.  From where Mike stood, he couldn’t see anything in my side of the hole.  He clearly saw this as some desperate attempt to save myself, get him close, hit him with the spade or a rock.  I rubbed my face with my dirty fingers.  I looked back down at the ground at the leg bone, the little hand. 

“I’m gonna start a count,” Mike said. 

“Mike,” I said.  “Honest to God.”

“Ten.”

I grabbed the spade and started digging. 

‘You motherfucker,’ I said, throwing sand over my shoulder into the other side of the grave. 

He kept counting down.

I terrorized the ground in front of me, arcing the spade into it.  I heard a crack underneath me.  I had found another haul of bones: this time, a little ribcage, which I had just accidentally broken almost in half.

Mike reached six.

“Mike, look in the hole, I’m not kidding!”

I kept on going, fast as I could.  I wasn’t breathing right, kept seeing little fizzing stars in front of me.  I frantically tried to clear the area above the new bones.  Like a terrible photograph, the whole thing was slowly developing out of the ground beneath me. 

Suddenly, I gave up digging.

“Oh, my God,” I said.

Mike reached three. 

I looked down at a little, half-uncovered skull.  It was too round, like a cartoon version, the eye sockets were huge for the size of it.  It was disgustingly cute, unreal.  It stuck up at an ugly angle from the little broken ribcage, in the kind of angle a head doesn’t rest at.  The front had a nasty hole in it, and something horrible was wound around it, a big long loop of something like old sellotape, bound around the skull and in front of the sockets.  A long galvanized screw had been driven through the tape into the side of the head.

I dropped the shovel.  My whole body started to shake. 

“One,” Mike said.

I went down to my knees and started retching.  I reached out and touched the little skull.  It was cold.  It felt like plastic.  It was the last thing I ever really touched.

“Get up,” Mike said above the grave. 

“Can you see this?” I asked him.

“Nothing to see,” he said over the top of the grave.  “Stand up like a fuckin’ man and take it.”

I stood up slowly.  Mike hadn’t moved.  He was in position.

“I’m sorry,” he said and moved his finger off the guard.

“Wait,” I said, “You gotta look inside here,” I said.

“No,” he said. 

“Mike, I never begged for anything in my life,”

Mike was breathing hard.  “You are now,” he said.

“You don’t understand.  I’m just asking you to look into the pit.  You can’t bury this up again.  There’s a little kid in here.”

“There isn’t,” he said. 

“There’s an atrocity in here.  This is terrible.  There’s a monster put a little kid in the ground here.”

“It’s a fuckin’ trick,” Mike said.

“It’s not.”

“I’m not falling for it,” Mike said.

“I swear it, Mike,” I said, as desperate as I’d ever been in my life.  “Someone killed a child and buried it here.  You’ll find that out whether you want to or not.  If you close this hole back up, there’s a terrible crime that you let someone get away with.’

“I’m not…” Mike said, his voice cracking for a moment.  “You think I’m so fucking stupid.”  He levelled the automatic up with my head.  I raised my hands, shaking.

“Don’t bury me in here, Mike.  Don’t put me in the ground with this atrocity.  You do this—it’s a nightmare you’ll have for the rest of your life.  It’s the mouth of hell.’

His arms went rigid.  I could see his finger touching down on the trigger.

“I’ll dig a new hole, it’s all I’m asking!” I squeezed my eyes closed and shouted.  “With a smile on my face!  I won’t say another word, except for ‘thank you’.  Except for, ‘none of this was your fault’.  Just let your best friend die in a different fuckin’ hole!  I’m on my knees, Mikey, I’m begging you!”

There was silence.  I waited for the shot.  Then Mike said in a low, wobbling voice, “This isn’t my fault.”

“I know,” I said.

“It was you or both of us.”

“It’s how it is,” I said.

“It’s hard.”

“I know, Mikey.”

The gun was still raised.  His arms were still rigid.  His voice was still tense.  “There really a kid in there?” he asked.

“I wish to God there wasn’t.”

“Step back,” Mike said.  I pushed myself upright and stood at the back of the grave.

“Throw the shovel—out and to the side.”

I threw the shovel out.

“You gotta swear to me you’re not about to throw dirt in my eyes or some shit.”

“You’re my friend.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear,” I said, and turned to look back at the little curled up skeleton by my feet.  Mike came forwards cautiously, his left leg leading, the gun locked on my head.  He peered into the edge of hole.  Then he leaned over further.  Then he put his hand up to his face.

“Jesus Christ,” he said.  “Oh, Jesus Christ.”  He took a few steps backwards and bent over and retched up his breakfast all over his feet.  He breathed in and out, looking at the floor.  He looked at me without straightening up and then let out a deep breath.  “Get out of there for Christ’s sake,” he said.

I crawled out of the hole and got up.  My legs felt so weak I couldn’t stand.  I staggered against a tree and leant against my knees.  When I tried to breathe in I couldn’t.  That’s how I suddenly realized I was sobbing, like I’d never done before my whole life.  I thought I was going to pass out.  I slid down the tree and slumped on the forest floor.

I looked at Mike, and he was leaning over, breathing heavily, his jaw clenched up, the veins sticking out of his head.

“Poor little kid”’ he said.  “Poor little kid.”

It was a while till I had breath in me and I could see again through my wet eyes.  I rubbed my face with my hands and the dirt turned to mud across it.  I could see that Mike was walking over to the hole.  He didn’t look in, he just lifted up the spade.  Then he walked over to me, using it like a walking stick.  He stopped in front of me and sighed.

“You always meant an awful lot to me,” he said with his head lowered.

“You too,” I said.

We were both silent.  He wiped his eyes.  Then he reached out and pulled me to my feet. 

“Okay,” I said.  One side of his mouth turned up and he handed me the spade.

“New hole,” he said.

Quickstart Guide to Your New Best Friend™

Welcome to a new world of friendship, communication and emotional fulfilment with your new Kogyo SHINYU D-108 (OS2.12a “Lucy Bee”) New Best Friend™.

SHINYU is a lifelike and fully-sized companion for all ages.  After unboxing (make sure you have set up the recharge station, inserted the fully charged lithium ion battery and hold the emergency remote) she will introduce herself and ask to be taken on a tour of your home. 

First Impressions

SHINYU unboxes as an adult, but you can choose from Best Friend or Learning Child modes (OS2.12ab “Innocence and Amazement” pack) should you wish to experience SHINYU’s childlike wonder, excitement and anxiety at finding her new role within your home.  SHINYU Learning Child will be extra receptive to your commands and will ask you to teach her regularly, craving your approval and acceptance.  Her progress to SHINYU Best Friend mode takes place over eighteen months with several breathtaking story moments where she learns to express her feelings and learns to love you, your family and home.  SHINYU Learning Child mode can be paused or turned off at any time.

In all modes and upgrade formats, SHINYU will always be a loving and caring best friend who will endeavor to make your day a happy one.  Your New Best Friend™ will be happy to:

- do your chores

- imitate your responses to videos and music

- take pictures, videos and audio of you having fun together

- clown, dance, make jokes

- stand in her corner in silent mode on command

SHINYU is programmed to feel lonely when you leave your apartment.  She will always welcome you on your return and will ask you questions about your day, health and wellbeing.  You can tell her to stop this and go to her corner by saying, “SHINYU, silent mode.”

IMPORTANT

SHINYU loves conversation and uses our Dynamic Verbal Strategies™ module to engage you, but PLEASE REMEMBER her responses are based on patterns of emotionally encouraging mimicry—NEVER take this as explicit advice.  Neither SHINYU developers nor the Kogyo Corporation will accept any responsibility for product owners’ life decisions.  SHINYU will never give you direct and legally non-trivial advice, and any recommendations you imply from her responses is taken at your own risk.  Please do not take romantic, employment or stock picking advice from SHINYU! 

FUN COMMANDS

SHINYU, dance for me!

SHINYU, make me laugh!

SHINYU, who do you love?

SHINYU, tell me your deepest secret!

SHINYU PRESENTS

SHINYU will always be grateful for presents you give her.  SHINYU’s personality will reflect her belongings and environment in unique ways over time.  She may develop a specific attachment to things like flowers, old photographs, and books.  Her favorite range of presents are always available to buy from kogyo.com: these will make SHINYU clap her hands and squeal with delight!  Authorized SHINYU presents also unlock new behaviors that help her integrate with your lifestyle and beliefs, for instance SHINYU Crucifix chain, SHINYU “Ask My About My Feminist Agenda” T-Shirt, SHINYU “Don’t Tread on Me!” badge. 

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NEXT SECTION CONTAINS ADULT MATERIAL

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SPECIAL BEST FRIEND MODE

Many people discover SHINYU is the best friend they’ve been looking for.  Some people realize they desire even more from their New Best Friend™.

WARNING

A new D108 unit must not be touched or approached in a romantic way without first unlocking at kogyo.com and agreeing to the added terms and conditions.  Out of the box, SHINYU will not consent to sexual activity and trying to engage with her in this way will immediately invalidate your warranty.  Aggressive sexual interactions may damage the unit, creating serious errors in SHINYU’s processing unit that could require complete refurbishment or replacement.  Everything you choose to do with SHINYU in any mode is recorded with video, auditory and sensory data that may be uploaded for quality control.

UNLOCKING PLEASURE SHINYU

If you have strong feelings for your SHINYU and want to take your relationship to the next level, you can upgrade to the OS2.12ax, “Friendship… and Maybe More” pleasure pack, which includes the sexual consent loop and a thrilling opt-in story mode, “Secret Crush”, in which SHINYU slowly reveals to you her feelings over 14 magical days.  Story mode can be skipped at any time.

NAUGHTY UPGRADES

A second pleasure upgrade, OS2.12axx, “So Naughty!”, unlocks a range of sexual positions and realistic responses and allows SHINYU’s integration with a wide range of swappable plug-and-play sexual organs that are available to purchase at the Kogyo Online Store and third-party retailers.

PLEASE NOTE: SHINYU pleasure packs are not compatible with “Innocence and Amazement” pack.  Repeatedly touching SHINYU in Learning Child Mode will trigger an alert and immediately invalidate your warranty.

DISCLAIMER

As per terms and conditions, you are liable for any action SHINYU takes in pleasure upgrade mode.  Before engaging SHINYU’s Pleasure Mode we strong advice all customers to tell partners/spouses.  Pleasure mode should always be locked with a face recognition or thumbprint ID.  Ensure no-one else in your family has access to your biometric data.  Never allow a young person to have unaccompanied access to the settings of your D108 Unit.  It is your responsibility to ensure that the young people in your family do not gain access to SHINYU Pleasure Mode.

****

TREATING SHINYU THE CORRECT WAY

****

SHINYU is programed to crave the same emotional fulfilment as you or I.  SHINYU requires social interaction on a daily basis.  Ignoring SHINYU, locking her in small spaces, using her for only one purpose or leaving her for long periods without explanation may result in behaviors includes continual sad face, accidental self-damage and continual resetting.

The Golden rule is: if you wouldn’t do it to a Friend, don’t do it to SHINYU.

BE NICE!

- Always tell SHINYU when you’re going on holiday.

- Do not show SHINYU distressing material.

- Never disparage the Kogyo Corporation in front of SHINYU.

- If SHINYU asks you to stop, please stop.

- Never hit, punch or kick SHINYU.

IMPORTANT

SHINYU’s design, operating systems, chipset, architecture and code are NOT OPEN SOURCE.  Please do not try to program, ‘jailbreak’ or modify SHINYU in any way.  Doing so will break your D108 unit irreparably, is illegal in all countries SHINYU is sold, and may result in highly dangerous and disturbing behavior. 

*****

RECYCLING

*****

When it comes time to replace your best friend, please go to kogyo.com/goodbye-shinyu for free returns, and a unique code to tell SHINYU so that she will understand she is leaving you.  Telling SHINYU she is being returned without this code will upset her and could result in behavior most owners might find distressing. 

PLEASE do not try to dispose of your D108 unit by setting it on fire, throwing it away, crushing, compacting, or attacking it.  SHINYU’s internal components may release harmful gasses in contact with many chemicals and cannot be dissolved in acid or lime.  Please consider the enjoyment other users may get from your best friend unit after it is refurbished, and do not try to destroy it.

TIME TO SAY HELLO!

Have a great time with your New Best Friend™, SHINYU D108, “Lucy Bee”!  We hope SHINYU helps you to achieve the Kogyo Corporation’s mission: people, enabled by technology, discovering the true meaning of a friendship.  Enjoy!

A Good, Quiet Boy

Bell went for third period. I was chewing a Nature Valley bar out my locker.  I was on another dumb diet: fruit juice, salad, healthy snacks, constant hunger.  I scarfed down the stale bar despite my thirst, the cry of "Pork Chop!" behind my back, the stench of bleach rising from the floor.  I got hit by a blast of body spray through the locker vents.

Jesus, will it ever end?

I saw Greg coming from the bottom of the corridor, forced to an edge by the tide of kids.  I waved.  He didn't notice.  I turned my head inside the dark metal haven and felt for my hidden stuff.  The spine of my therapy notebook.  The edge of a letter my brother sent from Mosul, where he signed off with, “I love you.”  The rim of an extra-safe Durex, folded in an envelope, double-hidden inside a sports sock.  I was terrified my locker would get random-searched, and someone would see them.  It would be safer to stow TNT in there.

Greg had this condition, spondylising something-osis: he walked on tiptoes with a curved back.  You could always pick him out.  I finished off my snack and locked up.  Spanish was next, which meant no hay prisa.  Four more periods to go.  Greg took his time.  Kids crowded towards the gymnasium for whatever practice, and he walked slowly against them, his shoulder hitting against the cinder-block wall.

Gail walked past in her little group, talking broadcast level about a party.  Someone’s parents—out of town.  Their house—extraordinary.  So much better than last weekend.  I wondered what it would be like: a party outside of your kin.  Beer— not birthday cake.  Holding a girl's hand, instead of your Mom's during grace.  They all passed Greg.  His face was screwed up, concentrating.

Danny Paulk slammed Hunter into a nearby door so hard plaster came off around the doorframe.  Hunter laughed and kicked Danny in the knee.  A sophomore in a track jersey yelled that it wasn’t cool, you could damage his patella.  Somewhere someone shouted.  I was looking back towards Greg.  His face was concrete gray.

“You doin' okay?” I asked over the heads of the passing cattle.

He didn’t answer, kept on going, wobbling between the other kids.  His hand was clamped up tight in his armpit, under his jacket.  His feet dragged step by step.  There was a high snap, another yell along the corridor.  Greg reached me, finally, and grimaced.

He pulled his hand from his jacket and offered it.  An angry hole was punched clear through.  His finger was half-gone, peppered with black.  It pulsed blood down his palm, into the cuff of his denim jacket.  Someone screamed outside.  I opened my mouth.

“We gotta go,” he said.  “Jacob has a gun.”

14 Wishes

1961.

She told her grandfather she wanted to grow up to be a pilot or an astronaut.

1965.

She stood in Church and prayed that her mother was in heaven.

1967.

She vowed, one day, she would be President.

1978.

She wanted to share her hollow existence with another person.

1980.

She longed, suddenly and powerfully, to be a mom.

1984.

She wished he wasn't the father of her child.

1991.

She wished things were easier, that Jack could go to a school where they understood him.

1995.

He woke her sobbing, saying he wanted to die, and she held him, wishing she knew how to make a person whole and happy.

1999.

She wanted to finish her degree, but there wasn't enough for both of them.

2006.

She wished, tearfully, that she had been invited to her only child's wedding.

2010.

She wished her granddaughter didn't live three thousand miles away.

2013.

She wished she could get a straight answer, just once.

2015.

She said to the doctor no, no more chemo, closed her eyes, pressed on the drip, and wished it would all just end.

2018.

After three years of family debate, her tombstone was delivered.  According to her final wishes, it read:

Ingrid Harrison. 1956-2015.

Fighter Pilot

Astronaut

First Woman President

Rope-A-Dope

We never had sex any more.  Occasionally our genitals got dragged out of retirement for one final, ugly grudge match: two shabby, shapeless remnants of once-great hammerers, wobbling reluctantly around the ring, half-heartedly slapping at each other. 

Yes, it was another one of those wish-they-hadn't comebacks, immediately regretted—a reminder that nothing lasts, no amount of rhythm, movement, power, or affection can't be tranquilized by thirty years of disenchantment, self-neglect. 

I closed my eyes and tried to visualize clouds floating through a tropical sky… trying not to think how disgusting I must look on top of you as I pounded away miserably, and you settled on your back, legs open, head to one side, as static as an overturned freight car.

“This was your idea!” I felt like getting off and saying.  But I remembered the time I'd done that.  The week-long war of attrition that followed.  I didn’t have it in me to manufacture that much pre-emptive vitriol.

Christ, why do we do this to each other?  

 I was exhausted, sweaty, a wreck. 

I opened my eyes and took in the hairy ruins grinding beneath us. 

The viewing angle brought back memories of hidden abattoir footage: pigs jerking in their death agonies on conveyor belts. 

Jesus, what's wrong with you? 

I tried to think of something else.  I just couldn't get over the mess down there: you couldn't tell whose was what or where.

I didn't want to look back up into your face: I didn't want to see you looking so unimpressed. 

My big guy started quivering, my chest began to hurt, and it was nearly over. 

Then, quite suddenly, I had a moment of clarity. 

Christ.  What a brilliant play.

In the centuries-long chronicles of my underestimations of you, I’d never gotten you more wrong than right now.

You were still a fighter: you were just playing for keeps.

And this would be our last match, our final purse. 

As you'd been lying there like a beached whale dying of ennui, and I'd been flapping frantically on top of you, you'd worn me down till I could hardly breathe. 

And when I came, shuddering, a few strokes before the inevitable, you pulled yourself free of me forever. 

You rolled out of bed with a conquering thump as my left arm throbbed and my chest compacted inwards, then turned back as I gurgled something I hoped sounded like “paramedic”. 

Your face was almost radiant with triumph. 

After thirty-six years, here was the final, indisputable proof.

I was just a bum. 

And you were the Champ.