The 9th Narrator
Not all narrators are known. Many are known to Praxis, but not to you. Yet you follow along with this one, impelled by curiosity, lust, and an empty space both subtle and enticing.
Per Diem
You hurry down West 44th Street, rush through the revolving door. Your mind wanders as your breathing levels out, and you regain some composure. Your body does the work. The button gets pressed, you stand there. The doors open, your body walks you to the room you need. You breathe.
Brown’s there, waiting. She says hello, hands you the manila envelope.
You open it.
Inside are the usual.
A folder with details. The who’s, the what’s are static. The when’s, the where’s are given in ranges of options and left to your professional discretion.
A passport with a name on it, not yours but yours for now.
A black plastic card with logo emblazoned on it.
A stack of orange and purple bills with asemic writing, mag strips, watermarks, and a giant face, smug and certain. That’s your per diem. Your pay always comes later and not in paper.
You nod, stuff all the items back in the envelope, envelope in your stylish bag.
“There’s a purple pin in there,” Brown says. “You know what that means, yes?”
You nod because you now it means you can kill them or capture and release. Either is fine and pays the same.
“And a clear one, too.”
Your body nods as you wonder why they even bother with clear pins. Isn’t everyone a clear pin?
“Good. If you’re hungry, there’s some great food on the menu here. You can use the shower or bed, too.”
You say thanks but no thanks and leave.
Your body hails a taxi and asks for the airport.
Layover
You board the plane, your body tired, eyes like burning coals in your head. The seats are tight and too small. The woman next to you is possessed by something, maybe a demon. You keep an eye on her as your body turns the pages of the magazine, adjusted the brightness of the monitor in the back of the headrest facing you, goes to the lavatory, puts on an eye mask and snores.
Time is not on your side. You tell this to an attendant, who is sympathetic, calls ahead to let them know you're coming.
Your body encounters resistance from a tall man, white skin, red beard.
Body says excuse me.
“You gotta let people out,” he says.
You assess his weak points. Favors a hip. Too tall for the quarters. Overweight in the middle, hidden by the green jersey. Bad knee.
Your body apologizes again, explains you will miss your flight.
“I don't care,” he says and puts his hand on your body's shoulder.
You see three different wrist turns that will immobilize him, but will also create commotion. There are too many people between your body and the door, all connected by telecom, and even more inside the airport, with guns.
Your body apologizes again, then continues moving forward.
He lets go, shakes his head in disgust.
The body runs, but you miss your flight.
At the ticket counter, she’s sympathetic but unhelpful. Refers you to the concierge who gives you a number and a piece of paper.
Down by Gate C, a woman smokes. She talks to your body, eyes your body. Tells you about what’s happened to her, even though she doesn’t know who you are, why you’re here, or where you’re going.
It’s a stop you hadn’t anticipated.
Departure Upon Arrival
AJX is smaller than expected. You see there are tunnels underneath and separate concourses, so it’s an illusion, but the body was fooled.
Bathrooms are a wreck and the body recoils at the sights and smells there. You find the trail, the pulsing cord that leads from the smelly receptacles, through the herds of wise apes and dog people under apeskin, to the street, into the car. The body rests, speaks occasionally to the wise ape driving, discusses the devolution of contemporary hip-hop into pop morass. Says be chill, and disembarks.
The Epi is a shot of black glass, a thousand feet high, seventy-two floors of rooms filled with stories. The pulse leads the body through the glass, into the perfumed lobby like sandalwood and vanilla, the hand wipes the nose, and walks into the lift.
There are pretty bodies here. Enticing. Many to choose from.
Penthouse
The view gives your body tingles. It’s nice. The arms massage the skin fresh and wet and feeling fine from sex. There is a new slant here, a new drop.
The Crystal Spire shines over the city, a blue light shimmering outward creating bright spots and shadows throughout the streets, over the river, out to the sea. You rest in its hum, feel the soothing of its calling, its rhythm, its pulse. The body likes it, too, moves to it, too, pleasures itself, moans and smacks flesh against the glass, reaching for it as you rest in serene repose.
The appendage is tall here. Long and open to the pulse. The body lets more bodies in, more times than you are used to, and in more places, more rooms. The body is hungry and cannot be satiated. This will work for you, for your task ahead. It takes a hungry hole to eat a soul.
Omeno
The body enters the arena. Four hundred fifty thousand bodies here, almost as many souls, more spirits. Lines rushing in like circuitry, a circulatory system in relaxation. Vexation fills the body. Too many bodies here for this body. You consider jumping, dropping in. But this body is good. This body is strong. So your release the right chemicals, let the body feel good, let it feel sexy and happy.
The ground kisses the body’s feet and makes you smile. Azzajahna, mesophita donah. Omeno. Omeno.
The pulses are throbbing flares along strands, beads of light and love and hope swirling and dancing as the beautiful goddess takes the stage. She waves. The strings of light dance and tide with her wave. She directs them.
Before she speaks, the young god takes the stage.
The bodies recoil and hiss, shout, “Boo!” They rip reality and ignite images of his body. They cheer. The bleeding skies douse them, make them wet with ecstasy, open mouths hungry for blood, longing for that stickiness.
You ignore the young god’s words. They are immaterial and make no ripples. His energy, though, is like a thunderclap, stripping the souls from the bones to which they were tethered. A sore and sorrowful sight, tingling in its flush. Your body is excited. Horny from it. Used to abuse. This is the treatment it knows.
You casually connect to a line of light, let the body come, and then settle down, serene in a little dance, smoke some grass, sip some wine, feel real fine. A little rub here, a little kiss there. A blanket but no underwear. Pipes and lights, soft and sweet. Bottles and baubles in chests and on them.
The young god hangs his head, trembles off the stage as spirits savage his immortal soul. He cries and cries and cries until they are sated and buzz back to the hungry crowd.
The beautiful goddess puts her hands high, and the souls latch on to a body again. The spirits whir and dance and sing. Then she speaks, and the voices of the multitude are one. She sings, and you experience pure pleasure. Sensual bliss. The rapture.
Azzajahna, mesophita donah. Omeno. Omeno.
