“No trouble at all, Mr. Punch. A growing ability to retain facial awareness from one day to another is an excellent sign of progress. Shall we pick up where we left off?”
“Don’ ’member,” Mr. Punch warbled as his cocktail kicked in. It was just sick, I tell ya, seein’ a man like that laid low, blubbin’ and stutterin’ like he belonged here, like he wasn’t a panther under that Haldol haze. Like he wasn’t a beautiful monster just like me.
“That’s perfectly all right. We’ll start fresh. The basics. The root of the issue.” I leaned in close. He smelled like sour sweat and bile and puke—but under that, he smelled like home. “Why are you here, Mr. Punch?”
Mr. Punch’s furioso eyes went bloody knifepoints again. I could hear his heart start up insida him like a boiler comin’ on in Hell’s basement. He grabbed my wrist, dug his nails into me. Don’t tell Daddy, but I almost came right there. Mr. Punch snarled one big, black word:
Grimdark.
The word went echoin’ round the Pool, down into the deep end and across the bathing beauties of Club Meds. All the other kittens picked it up, tossed it around, gnawed on it, spat it out again. Every wrinkled cock in the place got rage-hard.
Grimdark.
The reason for the season! That big loser ox in body armor who knocked me on the head and dumped me in here. Dumped us all in here. In Sarkomand. In the Pool. In Dr. Leng’s Easter basket of bad eggs. Ain’t no bunny in the place didn’t know that emojock leather-queen fuckmuppet. Oh, wasn’t life grand in Guignol City before the big fella came along? A girl could burn down City Hall in peace! A boy could really express himself artistically—splice his genes with a crocodile’s or ’roid out on space-testosterone or just put on a spangled mask and haunt the shadows, followin’ his bliss. I grew up in that Guignol. Sure, it’s not great for the tax base, but the culture, you know? I miss that. I miss the old neighborhoods before Grimdark made the mean streets safe for foreign real estate investment. Now it’s like New York after disco hit the skids. Now it’s brunch and boutiques and artisanal babies born with a silver EpiPen shoved up their asses. Now this hunka Kevlar and meatheaded super-dickery comes along and decides it’s his job to clean up the place. Who asked ya, buddy? Who the shit d’ya think you are? Except no one knows who he is, because of course they don’t. God, it’s just so paint-by-frickin’-numbers. We all hate him—but it’s not what you think! We don’t hate him for beatin’ us or for fightin’ for his goody-two-shits section four point zero one of the penal code idea of justice. A nemesis gets your blood goin’ in the morning! Archenemies beat coffee every day of the week! Naw, we hate him ’cause he’s boring.
He’s tortured. He’s mysterious. He can bench-press his mommy issues one-handed. He wears all black—not a spangle or a crocodile scale or a measly pop of color in sight. Grimdark isn’t special—not like Miasma or Doctor Nocturne. He just works out a lot and bought the whole Sharper Image catalog in one go. He’s the rich kid in school who whacks ya in the nose and tells the teacher you started it. Well, maybe you did and maybe you didn’t, but honestly, Grimdark just likes punchin’ things, and that boy was gagging for an excuse.
But punching is all he wants to do! All foreplay and no big, final thrust-n-shudder. He’s got a Saturday morning cartoon for a moral compass, so he’ll beat ya till your kidneys give out and your bones snap like glow sticks, till you’ll never look the same again, till a prizefighter’s brain scan looks nicer than yours, but he won’t kill ya. As if noble Mr. Grimdark’s somehow in the clear if a fella bleeds out at the hospital, just so long as he didn’t actually shoot the poor bastard in the face. For Chrissake, at least Mr. Punch’ll putcha out of your misery! But no, he just sticks us all in here, in Sarkomand, because he’s such a fantastic genius that tucking all the wickeds of the world in bed together seemed like a super-spiffy idea. That 1% bro-fund manager protein shake addict swoops and swaggers around Guignol City like he owns us all, barfin’ up Hallmark-card poems about JUSTICE and REVENGE and DARKNESS along with some seriously freshman poli-sci haiku that sounds super deep and means jack except that a rich man’s gonna make a poor man bleed. As if the mutant league of law and order didn’t already have the game fixed; now they just don’t bother with innocent until proven guilty. These days, it’s innocent till we call Grimdark. Listen up: if Meanie Mussolini were kickin’ around today, he’d be a superhero. Trust me.
Grimdark.
FUCK THAT GUY. I wanna talk about me. This is about me. You have to listen to me! You have to see me. I’m smashed in here between Grimdark and Mr. Punch like the world’s worst threeway, and yet somehow I never get mine. I pulled off the greatest heist in Guignol City history! I stole Mr. Punch’s attention. D’ya know what it takes to get a supervillain to open up, talk about his feelings, and explore his vulnerability in a safe, healthy environment? It’d be easier to steal the Constitution or burn down Buckingham Palace or whatever boring thing the kids are planning these days. Yeah. It ain’t nothin’!
Grimdark.
The red-light district in Mr. Punch’s eyes closed up shop again. I felt his forehead, still in Doctor Polly mode. Skin-to-skin contact is very important in establishing a patient bond or some shit. His hair felt like lacquered lightning. Mr. Freud says boys gotta talk about their mama. Mom, Mom, Mom, it’s always Mom at the bottom of a rotten soul! But Mr. Ziggy Stardust of the Austrian Amygdala didn’t know a damn thing about people like Mr. Punch and me.
“Tell me about your nemesis,” I whispered.
Mr. Punch reached one long hand up and stroked the side of my face. It was more like love than anything I’d ever dug outta the bargain bin. It’d been way longer than five minutes. And Mr. Punch was still lookin’ at me like I was madea marshmallows and he was starvin’ to death.
• • •
I kept him hopped up pretty good on Klonopin and Haldol and whatever the little pink ones are. Mr. Punch got pink ones and I didn’t. Boo. Nurse Happy was delighted to let me take over the candy distribution for the really ugly cases. But after a while, it was just no fun having a Mr. Punch doll who couldn’t hardly walk or talk or use his kung-fu grip. Bad Daddy always said I got bored of my toys too easy. Sign of a frivolous brain. But I say toys oughtta step up their game if they wanna stick around! Who can be bothered with the same old dumb dolly day in, day out? Swap out those button eyes for lifelike blinking action and laser-sighting! Stick that plastic pupper down the garbage disposal and gimme a Good Daddy.
I palmed the pink ones first.
“Where were you born?” I asked Mr. Punch. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. It always looks très professional. I am HERE for this business now that I’ve got that loose hair taken care of!
“Hell,” said Mr. Punch. Was that a little less drool? A little smile starting?
“Hell, Florida, or Hell, California?”
Mr. Punch didn’t know what to do with that one. It’s a good trick. I always did it with my doctors. Just go along with whatever they say, ’cause they’re not about to stop saying it. They hardly even needya there, really. My grumpy ol’ patient grunted and flopped his face over to stare at the deep end of the pool, where the Fearwig was busy sharpening a tongue depressor into a shiv with his pincers. Ugh. The Fearwig is gross. He is never invited to my birthday party.
“And what year was that, Mr. Punch?”
“1066.” The Fearwig shambled over to a fat chick with a tattoo of the world on her dumb face. We watched it happen calmly, with a real sense of companionship, like watching the ocean from a big, white boat deck.
“I have your file, Mr. Punch.” I didn’t. “You ain’t . . . you aren’t any kind of mystery to me. I already know everything about you. Where you were born and what year doesn’t matter. It only matters that you tell me.”
Wiggy got his wooden stake up under the heart of the big fat world. Nurse Happy and her crew threw their arms up in the air, wailin’ and moanin’ like a big-ticket musical, kick-ball-change and shake ya syringes! Jazz hands!
r /> Mr. Punch grinned up at me. “I’ll dance and sing like any thing, with music for my pretty Poll.”
Then he passed clean out. Oh, well.
I swiped the little green pills next. After-dinner mints, I always call ’em.
“At what age did you lose your virginity?” I asked. Was he sittin’ up a little straighter? Twitchin’ a little less?
“I’ve known whores and dolls in a hundred halls but I’ve saved all my love for my pretty Poll.”
And he yacked all over the moldy green tiles of old Mrs. Sarkomand’s healing natatorium. Aw, Mistah Punch, you can quote at me and puke at me all you want. I want anything that’s inside ya. Everything you got.
“What a lovely sentiment, Mr. Punch. But I hardly think that can be true. Even the original Mr. Punch was married to Judy before he met his Pretty Polly.” God, but it was hard to keep up that fancy voice! Tasted like Bad Daddy’s cigars in my mouth.
Mr. Punch’s neon hair gleamed in the watery Pool-light. He kept on talkin’ all hunched over where he’d barfed. Like there was a microphone in his slime. “I was twenty-five. I paid a whore to get it over with. She had blond hair and blue eyes, like American girls always do in the movies. Her name was Daisy. When it was done, she said she loved me. Says it to all her johns. That’s her calling card, like my strangling men with puppet strings. It’s nice to conduct your life with a little flair. I appreciated that about her. She took the time to leave a mark. So, I only broke her hand instead of killing her as I’d planned. Professional courtesy.”
Another girl probably woulda stopped there. Who wants to peel back another whack of onion once you hit the hooker-killing slice? Me. I did. People always want me to be good somewhere deep inside, but Bad Daddy was always right about me. I’ve got shit for a soul and a C-4 heart. So, the next time I got Nurse Happy’s white coat on and took that little Dixie sippy cup of meds over to Mr. Punch, I dropped all those pills—the after-dinner mints, the pink ladies, the blue velvets—into my pocket and sat down next to him real close. So close I could smell his emptiness. I looked into his red eyes, the deepest eyes in the whole wide world, deeper’n Hell, Florida, and the Battle of Hastings and all the blood and death that ever happened to anybody ever.
“Tell me your name, Mr. Punch. Your real name.”
“I’m no one,” he whispered. “It’s better to be no one. It’s so lazy being somebody. Everybody does it. Except him. No one knows who he is. That’s how it should be. No names. Just death in the dark.”
I thought long and hard about it. Never give up an advantage. But then again, if you want a boy to like you, you gotta give him presents.
“I know who Grimdark is,” I said, cool and causal, like sayin’: I know the name-a that actor in that one show you like.
Oh, did I not tell ya? I absolutely know who Grimdark is. I met him a buncha times at Bad Daddy’s parties. Practically bounced me on his knee when I was just a wee baby psycho in ribbons and matchsticks. He thinks he’s so clever with the black mask and the armor and that fake-ass manly voice, but who is he kidding with that jawline? Please.
Mr. Punch’s pupils crackled black and bright. It was him. It was finally him in there, and he wanted what I had. I shivered all over. He grabbed my hand. His skin was hot. My heart beat like it could get outta me and jump straight into him.
“Tell me.”
“Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t,” I giggled. He was squeezing my hand so tight, I thought he was gonna break it. Like Daisy the loving hooker. I did get a little worried then. You don’t get outta Bad Daddy’s house without survival instincts. “Maybe it’s time for your meds.”
He slung on that mad grin. Mr. Punch’s patented scars opened and folded into new patterns, deeper patterns. “If you like. They have as much effect on me as the water I take them with, Dr. Ketch. Tell me who he is or I will choke you to death in front of this august audience of Guignol City’s greatest hits and has-beens.”
“You were faking!”
Mr. Punch gave a humble little shrug. This old thing? How sweet of you to notice. I reached out my free hand and stroked the side of his face just like he’d done to me.
“That’s all right, sweetie,” I crooned. “I was fakin’, too. Ain’t we a pair?”
I opened Nurse Happy’s coat to show the stained green checkered hospital gown inside. I don’t think I’ve seen a thing in this world as nice as the way Mr. Punch looked at me then. Not even my house burning down like justice. He kissed me on the mouth (boy howdy, was my baby a good kisser!) and hissed:
“Of all the girls who are so smart, there’s none like Pretty Polly. She is the darling of my heart, she is so sweet and jolly!”
It was a cinch and a half to escape. Sometimes, I think they want us to get out of Sarkomand and back to good ol’ Guignol. If you ever get your situation stuck in there, just shimmy up to the vents in your room. Those old houses got pipes like highways. There’s a little spot halfway through the HVAC—you can’t miss it. The steel’s like a yearbook.
Miasma Was Here.
Doctor Nocturne 2010. 2012. 2015.
See Ya Next Year!
Can’t keep a Fat Cat down!
Dr. Leng hopes you’ve enjoyed your stay. He knows you have many choices when it comes to maximum security incarceration, and thanks you for choosing Sarkomand Sanatorium. Have a Healthy Day!
MEGALODON ROCKS.
Mr. Punch and Pretty Polly Sittin’ in a Tree.
• • •
I took him to my apartment in Guignol. I knew Daddy wouldn’t’a dumped it. Better to let the place sit empty and accumulate equity. It’s expensive to live in the big GC these days! Fuckin’ hipsters, man. And you think I’m bad.
Funny, Mr. Punch didn’t look so scary standin’ in my kitchen, wearin’ my lime-green kimono like the hottie he was, waitin’ for Mr. Coffee to do his thing.
“Tell me,” said Mr. Punch.
“Later, Mistah,” I laughed. “Whodya think you’re talkin’ to? This is a straight-up Scheherazade situation we got here. If I spill those beautiful black beans, whaddo I got? A big fat nothin’. I wanna be involved, Mr. Puppet Man. I wanna be your girl. So, just you play tea party with me like a good dolly and maybe I’ll give you your treat.”
And that’s how I kept my man. He was my dog on a leash and the leash was a name I couldn’t say till I knew I’d be safe. Till I could make him a Good Daddy.
It was like college, livin’ with Mr. Punch! We slept all day and ran wild at night. My sweet baby boo burned my face just like his! We used coat hangers heated up in the gas oven, and after, we went straight out and burned down the Harlequin Theater together—how very dare they put on the same lazy sack of mayonnaise-plays every couple of years? We saved the world from another goddamned Romeo and Juliet, I tell ya. It was charity. We robbed the Guignol City Bank and Trust, we killed up the board of trustees of Guignol Electric and Power in one glorious night of monologues and machine-gun fire. We kidnapped a gaggle-a grad students and made ’em cook up a rapid-release water-soluble hallucinogen in my little kitchen. We were just a couple of wacky kids in love! And in between he’d fuck me on the floor of my flat and ask me over and over. Beg me. Tell me his name, you bitch. You cunt. I love you. I’ll always love you, Pretty Polly, you dumb fucking whore, you stupid bag of meat, tell me his name. I love you so, I love you so, I’ll never leave you, no, no, no. He choked me for funsies and it felt like a warm glass of milk at bedtime. He called me a cunt and it sounded like darling.
Well, okay, he didn’t fuck me, exactly. No matter what we did, nothing really happened down south. But Mr. Punch wouldn’t leave his girlie hangin’, no sir! He had a wooden thingy he tied on with puppet strings. It was painted all over with Death and the Devil and the Judge and all the rest of the kittens in your average Punch and Judy show. And with that thing strapped on, he did me proud. I don’t mind. We’re all broken somehow.
I’ll tell ya, I was feeling pretty good about life on Planet Me. We had plans for the fu
ture, Mr. Punch and me! My sweetie supported my dreams. He said any time I wanna go drown Bad Daddy in gasoline, he’d make me a packed lunch with a prize inside! He was gonna fix me up a cozy li’l nest in the police commissioner’s mansion, bread in the pantry and booze in the fridge. And something BIG in the oven. Mr. Punch and Pretty Polly were gonna reel in the big fish. Stop runnin’ from the big lunk in the black mask and take our city back. Mr. Punch had a plan.
“We’ll go to him. You and me, my darling dunce. My Pretty Poll, my candy cunt. Hunt him down in his own bed. We’ll dress up for the New Year masquerade—you know how I love a mask at midnight! He’ll be there. Everyone in Guignol who matters will be there! They’ll simper and dance and tell each other how wonderful they are for dumping their caviar at a shelter after they’re done slurping it up. At midnight, we won’t mess about with any sort of SWAT team nonsense or security system tampering. I shall simply walk up to him, curl my arm round his waist, and slip a knife into his heart. As intimate and quiet as a divorce. And all I need, my Pretty Poll, my rotting angel, my heart, my numbskull nymphet, is his name. Then we will be free and together until the heat death of Guignol City, which I expect to follow shortly.”
So I told him. Why not? He loved me. I loved him. All that crap about Scheherazade was in the past. Love is love! Nothin’ can get past love. So I told him. I lay my head on his chest and breathed in his smell and gave up the goods.
“Glenn Falk. Glenn Falk is Grimdark.”
Golly, but Mr. Punch fucked me then! His flesh and my flesh, warm and alive and matching. Matching scars, matching teeth, matching eyes. He fucked me for real, without the marotte. That’s what it’s called. His puppet stick. See, I know things. I know lots of things. I went to Harvard, you judgmental bitches. Suck my Crimson Tide. Mr. Punch came inside me like a war crime. We broke the bed! We’ll laugh about this tomorrow and steal a new one, I thought.