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From: mithryl@walrus.com (Mithryl)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.prose,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.bondage
Subject: CODY: FROSH Chap.6 The Look & Feel
Date: 19 Nov 1996 20:03:09 GMT
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FROSH
By CODY ANN MICHAELS
c. All rights reserved.
"Two questions: Are you 12 or 19 or 24 or what? Is your name Cody
Ann Morgan, nee Michaels, or is that a pseudoname? I don't need to, or
even want to, know your name if Cody is not it, but I'm curious as to
whether or not it is." -- P.
Dear P.
Like Billy Pilgrim, Cody is spastic in time. Or perhaps in "age"
would be a better answer. Yes, my name is Cody Ann Morgan, nee Michaels,
as you put it. It seems rather grand and impressive that way. I'm sorry
about the quotes. I use what are useful to my story. I would like you to
be more careful of yourself. Treat yourself better. Now, if you are like
most guys, that will probably serve as a goad to send you off on a super
bender just to show me what you can really do in the realm of self-demol
ition. But, still, I would like you to stop hurting yourself. The
Kennedys are a enclave of madness that I try not to visit; too easy a
target. The real question is why, in 30 years, has no one in the family
publicly questioned the Warren Commission re port and the single bullet
theory, even though in most universes bullets do not turn corners, and
most bullets do not blow the back of a person's skull off if they are shot
from behind. (Remember, in the movie, Jackie climbs onto the back of the
car to r ecover Jack's missing half pumpkin.) So do they know something
archetypal -- or were they warned?
I'm working a fantasy in which Hitler decides not to attack
Poland; too messy. Might start a war. And 23 years later, as a beloved
elder statesman, he wins the Nobel peace prize for negotiating a
settlement in the Cuban missile crisis between Khruschev and President
Joseph Kennedy (father or son?). -- Cody
*
Chapter 6
The Look and the Feel
"Your bike was
taken by the Parks
Dept. You can
claim it somehow." -- note taped on tree.
"Please remember to take your belongings when leaving the taxi and
please get a receipt from the driver."
-- taped woman's voice each time you get out of NY cabs.
*
I feel like I am being used to tell a story that is not my own. I
don't want that. I almost wish I was a hooker again; it was so
uncomplicated. I knew what was me and what wasn't. Now I am dying each
day some other person's death.
Cody, what do you know about the Holocaust?
Nothing.
Come on. You must have read something.
I said I don't know anything. I wasn't there. And the people who
were there don't know either. Nobody does. You've been raped. Did you
take notes while it was happening? So that you would remember? Do you
remember it or do you only remember being raped>? Do you think
remembering is knowing? Do you think the people who walked into the
crematoriums knew what was going on? Do you think they know now? I mean
any who survived. You only know something in the instant it happens; not
even then. Know ing is not the same as remembering. Unspeakable pain is
not a time to conduct a research project. Make a study. Jot down
statistics. If you survive, all you have left are memory and
explanations. You can spend the rest of your life making up explana tions
and descriptions. And lies. Conducting surveys. Collecting
demographics. Publishing research papers.
Yes, but you know about the camps.
I don't know about the camps. I was never in the camps. And if I
went to a place now that was a camp, I would still not be there, any more
than if I went to Alcatraz and tried to imagine how awful it must have
been when it was filled with prisoners. T hat would be imagination. It
would not be knowledge. What I know about now is that there are people
who act as if they know, and pretend as if people then should have known;
as if there was some sort of crystal ball in 1933 that would have told say
Heid iegger or Leni Reifenstal what an absolutely unspeakable mess this
was going to end up as in the next 12 years. If that is possible, why is
no one going around today asking what is going to outcome of the politics
of cruelty that is going down now. Peop le have got their heads stuck up
the ass of 1933, trying to make 1996 go away.
This is the time to be aware of; to be scared shitless in.
The girl was sitting in one of the two metal chairs that was in
the bare room.
Are you scared>?
There was a long silence; then she started to cry. Oh God, yes.
What about?
I... I don't know.
Do you think someone's going to hurt you?
I think.... I think. You know, if it was just a matter of dying,
of being killed, it would be okay. Tears ran down her cheeks. I could
handle that. Eventually, when you get beat up enough, you stop hurting.
It's what's beyond that that scares me.
Why? Aren't you afraid to die?
Of course I am. But I'm willing to take my chances. It's large
amounts of well-organized ignorance that scares me. Like, it's like
there's an intelligence that's orchestrating all this. That's what
terrifies me. It's so big. It seems to be. And so evil. Sometimes I
think that what we call war is when God shows us his face. I think what
we're waiting for noe is God to come back for the third time. And this
time there's not going to be a way out.
You mean a war?
No. No. Not a war. The wars were just experiements. No.
That's not right either. The wars were when the experiements blew up. In
God's face, so to speak and the animals in the laboratory escaped. Or
maybe when he freaked out; like Victor Frankenstein smashing his retorts.
Hitler was a dead end. But this time, he's finally got it together. All
the equipment to keep the experiment going without blowing.
What experiment?
The golem. God's golem. You see, if Hitler hadn't blown it. If
he hadn't fucked up, by starting a war... But, of course, Germany was too
small... It was only a prototype. God needed something bigger. But now
we're taking away everything. The who le immune system, so to speak. All
the structures are in place. You don't need to take care of people or
help them. We have the internet. We have the great docile white middle
class. Fuck the old people. Fuck the poor. Entitlements were the
gantrie s, so to speak. But now they aren't needed. You can have a total
environment, and the vas hermeticum will not blow. The allies will not
arrive in the nick of time to save you. Because the allies have become
the creature. Do you think Saddam Hussein's going to come riding in here
and save medicare?
Why are you worried about medicare>? You're only fourteen years old.
I'm not worried about medicare, Liz. Medicare has nothing to
fucking do with it.
But you said... The voice came from the tiny speaker in the
laptop on other chair. A wire ran from the modem to a telephone on the
floor. The voice was tinny. But probing.
In fact, after the way those old farts sat on their hands while
teenage mothers got screwed, those santimonious bastards, I hope they get
their own welfare checks cut off. They totally deserve it.
What I said... I mean, what I mean is that the wars destroyed the
conditions that existed before; they were like safety valves. But this
time, there's not going to be an escape.
An escape from what? The voice came from the computer.
I don't know.
How can you say that World War 2 was an escape? 50 million people
died. Cody's legs were tied at the anlkles to the legs of the chair. And
her wrists were tied together behind the chair. This, effectively, kept
her immobilized.
Maybe it was better than what God had in store for them.
What?
I don't know! Damnit. Leave me alone.
She slumped back in her chair. I just feel them closing in.
There's nowhere to go. Let me alone.
Would you like to talk about something else? The voice asked.
Cody assumed that somewhere, Liz's body was monitoring this conversation.
That it wasn't all just the computer. Or the internet.
No.
She pulled forward, turning her head; a cascade of long curls
spilled over her right shoulder. She tried to see if there was a camera.
Suppose the holocaust would be everywhere. I don't mean people
with Sinaid O'Conner heads and cremetoriums belching human toxins into the
sky. I mean the mentality of the holocaust, a kind of endless grey
phantasm stretching hopelessly out in all direc tions. It wouldn't matter
if you are in a barracks or a city street. No matter where you go, it's
there, seeping into your bones. Suppose the holocaust never ended, and
all this ever since is in the imagination of someone in the camps; maybe a
collecti ve dream of survival. They're imagining that the war has ended,
and the allies have liberated us. You have to have something to hold
onto.
But Cody, you're not Jewish.
Oh, and that's another thing. Why does it always have to be about
the Jews? They weren't the only ones. What about the Poles? What about
queers? Do you think the appocalypse is going to be so picky picky? Do
you think Hitler wouldn't have thrown me in jail?
No. He would have cut off your head. Especially if you talked
like that.
Fuck him. Besides, I would have been a nazi.
What makes you say that?
Because I liked the look. The nazis had style. Which is more
than I can say for assholes today. I think I would have looked super in
an s.s. uniform. Sig Heil!
A jolt of electricity warned her to be careful.
Now, fruelion, lets go over this again.
Maybe we should let her rest.
Nonsense, Freulein Cody is just beginning to enjoy herself, nicht
wahr?
You fucking bastards, I'll never tell.
WHAM!
He slapped her face. The girl's head spun sharply sideways. A hand
gathered itself in her hair and jerked her back. What?
She spit at him. Blood came with it, smearing his lab coat.
I like a girl with spunk. Bring me the acid.
She wailed.
Now what are you remembering?
This will be a cure for cancer.
It's very important for you to remember the experiment.
Frau Olga dragged her down to the cellars.
I think we have a breakthrough, Professor.
I will make you live.
I'm already alive, thank you.
Yes. But when you're dead you won't be.
Couldn't we just keep the status quo>?
Wham. His fist knocked her across the room.
You will speak only when spoken to.
First they drained half the blood out of her body. Then they
fattened her up. Then they drained some more. They needed twenty
gallons. She couldn't make it fast enough. They gave her hormones.
In a few days, she was good for two gallons a day.
Production soared. Other slaves were brought in. A carefully
guarded secret was that Jewish blood infused the Wehrmacht.
Let me alone. Let me alone. She slumped in the chair.
Was your grandmother a Nazi? Liz asked.
I don't know. She never talks about it. My father told me.
Actually, he told Luann, my step mother, and I heard him. She could have
been. She had the look.
Maybe she's a war criminal.
Yeah. Maybe.
Or maybe she imagined the war. She was in the camp. The nazis
thought she was a Jew. She claimed she wasn't. She was an aryan. Only
the Jews believed her.
You can imagine what it was like. So she imagined there was a
war, and the allies came to rescue them. And that she came to America and
had two sons, and one of them had me. And now she's imagining that she's
me. While the Jews work her over.
It would be a big incentive. They left me keep my s.s. uniform.
Wait a minute. The gate swung shut behind me. I screamed that I was
aryan; I was born in Little Rock, Texas. Just check my passport. I'm
not Jewish. I'm not. Then I turned around an d looked backward. Down
the muddy road between the lines of barracks.
Some day my prince will come... I started to walk. The high
heels of my black boots sunk in the mud. I nearly fell. My hair was a
mess. Blood trickled down my chin. Maybe there was some other way out.
She lit a cigarette. Someone had spread the rumor around the camp
that I was Hitler's daughter. I had been a chorus girl in a revue in
Munich. We wore short black tunics and black panties. This was my
punishment.
Cody stood up and walked around the room. Liz watched her long,
lithe figure, taut as a wildcat as it prowled. The Jews dumped everything
on me. They paid the Germans back in spades. I had to think of
something. So I dreamed there had been a war. Something had to happen
to get me out of there.
Then you came to America?
Yes. No one knew about my past. I was American, you see. That's
what my passport said.
Were you?
Yes.
What about Ireland?
My father took us there during the civil war. Michael Collins was
my lover.
You're making that up.
Maybe.
How old were you at the beginning of the war?
Fourteen.
Collins died in the early twenties.
So?
So you weren't even born yet.
I wasn't born then, either. It was my grandmother.
She stood behind the older woman and played with her hair. Liz
stiffened. She knew how the young girl felt about her. But she did not
think it right for them to be too intimate.
She tugged playfully at Liz's dark curls. "I love you, Liz."
And I love you. She knew how important it was for Cody to be able
to express love to someone. But it had to be kept in check. Otherwise it
could go too far. Cody's hand slid down inside her blouse. Liz caught
it. Cody kept going until she grabbed t he big tit meat. Liz gasped.
Cody leaned down and kissed her on the mouth.
She raped her. Liz lay on the floor crying. Her skirt was ripped
all the way to her waist. Cody had fist fucked her. "And if you tell
anyone, I'll say you were the one who came onto me."
Liz crawled back into her chair, and turned around. I won't tell,
Cody. I promise.
After that, the two women had regular sex. Until they were
caught. After that, Cody was tied up, and Liz had to speak to her through
the computer.
Cody turned herself into knots in the chair.
She threw herself at the laptop; her chair tipped forward, and she
bashed her chin on the concrete floor. She came to, slowly. The computer
was still talking. Her head felt like the right side had been crushed
with a hammer, just behind the ear.
Aids isn't a virus. It's a transmission. It's a message going
somewhere. Moving from one person to another. We don't know what it
says. It comes from a very deep level. Maybe from Mars. We're all
transmitters. Something's moving through us. Just be calm. You won't
die. I wasn't sure, but I tried to calm down. I was in a state of high
frequency,. I got a job working at Women's Wear Daily. John picked me
out of the cadets. Now I was moving up. Through God's body. Wait a
minute.
God is hungry again.
They fed him the welfare people.
He was still hungry.
They gave him the old people.
He still wasn't satisfied.
There wasn't much left.
Just some kids in blue jeans and leotards.
I was in one of Calvin Klein's bus ads.
that got all the trouble.
a new face.
a gaven's glfit
here's another
she came out of her grave
and is floating in the water
The dead rose up in Pumpkin Flats.
I had them walking down the runway
in Paris Rance
Cody is using historical and journalistic events which she does
not fully understand to try to deal with the tumultuous occurrences of her
own life. She fantasizes herself into the persona of her grandmother, who
may or may not have been a war criminal. She sees herself as an Aryan sex
goddess at the mercy of vengeful Jews. In this way she rationalizes her
anti-semitism.
As a congresswoman, she would have power. Her father, who may be
dead, was a minor politician -- a state senator who once ran for
lieutenant governor. He often spoke of running for Congress, but was
thwarted by rivals in his own party. At different ti mes, Cody sees
herself as Hitler's daughter and Michael Collins's lover. She saw the
movie. This is via the grandmother who has a mysterious past.
Cody forces herself on Lizabeth Kohl, forces the older woman into
becoming her lover, traps her. Liz is a tall, handsome woman in her mid
thirties, the age the grandmother would have been at the beginning of the
war, whether or not she actually was the dead Irish hero's girl friend.
She has long, almost black hair and deep penetrating eyes. Her figure is
full, with large, heavy breasts. She likes leather. It's clear Cody
understands her deepest desires. No matter how hard Liz fights, Cody
keeps com ing on. Liz is reduced to a pawing, gasping animal, huddled in
her chair. The two women exchange roles. Cody is totally in control.
She covers Liz with her body; forcing her tits into the half breed's
ecquisite face. When Liz protests, Cody knees her violently in the tummy;
slams her head on the concrete floor. Eventually, they must be separated.
Liz knows that she is responsible even if Cody is the stronger.
She is in charge of the session. A gulf of professional ethics cuts
between them. No touching is allowed. Her passionate desire for the
young girl's voluptuous body is verboden.
When Cody was discovered, she had been living in a packing crate
for several weeks; she was smeared all over with her own excrement; it was
on her face and in her matted hair. Even though the weather had turned
cold, she refused to put on warm clothing. Her clothing is a mixture of
erotic lingerie and rags; a frayed black corset and black panties; ripped
stockings. High heeled boots. Fetish clothing that goes with her
self-perception. She had eaten hardly anything in days.
Gradually, Cody came loose from her bonds. It was seen that she
had made them herself. At first the laptop was taken out of the room;
only a small speaker in the ceiling was left in place. But later, it was
felt safe to leave the computer with her so that she could have more
control over the dialogue between Liz and herself.
Eventually, the women were allowed to be together. Cody went for
Liz like a school of pirhanna lured by a slab of fresh meat. She was all
over the big woman. Strict rules governed their relationship. Liz knew
her career was on the line. She cowered in the face of the onslaught as
her clothes were ripped off and she was hurled backwards over the chair.
Her head cracked on the floor. Cody, she gasped, listen to me. The
laptop come down against the side of her head. Keys scattered. Liquid
display splattered.
Cody has trouble with time. Something about sequentiality eludes
her. This may be because she eats too much chocolate. Then, too, it is
hard to say whether things are together or separate. Different
occurrences of love and hatred. Love is a nuclear moment in a swiss
cheese universe. Go in one rabbit hole and come out another. Both women
have been raped. Is one like the other? Or are they different?
Statistically, they are the same. Cody brings the computer down on the
other woman's head, using the edge to inflict the worst damage. She hits
her in the cunt with it. Up between the legs. Shards of broken black
plastic rip through the soft fleshy thighs.
Then, all is quiet and the grey room is empty again. She does not
remember being brought in, made to sit in the chair. Being tied. Cody is
spastic in time. She is frozen at 14. Grounded there. 13 1/2. Eighth
grade. Kelly. Alex. Luann. She snap s back and forth like one of those
paddle balls. The rubber band is always fixed at 13 and a half. The ball
streaks out into the universe, but 13.5 is always waiting for it to come
back. Like a comet. WHAM! 1921. 1930. Twenty-16. POW. 6 years old .
My mother's age. Going south. The death camps. No! more.
You don't take notes. There is no time. There's always the next
show. The next runway. The next paper to get out. I'm telling you
what's happening. Psycho-babble. As soon as the words are spoken,
they're gone. You go on to the next. And the next . Don't look back.
You'll die. You've got to fight like a bitch. At the end of the runway,
you turn and come back.
When I watch Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dance, it is almost
inconceivable to me how long ago this movie was made. It is so incredibly
sexy. So intimate. I could almost get off on it right there. I think,
if they could do that then, why did it tak e so long to put a man on the
moon, or find a cure for AIDS? He is incredibly sexy. She was a bit of a
cow, a dressed up trashy blonde, but that makes her interesting in a way a
more elegant woman wouldn't have been; how he made her fat body move. You
get the feeling he could have been a total sadist. All that shiny silk
and feathers was dying to be slashed and soaked with blood.
I'm beginning to understand something. It's not all murder.
You've got to ride the wave. "If it swells, ride it." We should welcome
AIDS because it's a transmission from the infinite past, a microbial
journey up through consciousness on the way back t o the stars. We are
only the medium that carries it. You get AIDS, you pass it on. The
clearer the passage, the cleaner the message. Gods talking to each other
through our bodies. We should be honored. The whole evolutionary cycle
is a sound bite on the 6-thirty cosmic news. God's burp. The burp of a
minor diety. Be glad you were chosen. Otherwise, you are garbage. Junk
DNA.
I don't know. Nobody writes to me anymore. I think they think
I'm so screwed up I'm not worth bothering with. Maybe they're right. I'm
a pig. I should have been shot back there on my uncle's farm. But he
said it didn't matter. I was totally crazy. No one would care. Or
believe me. I was hateful. I had sinned against God and his dogs. I
guess I don't want anyone to write to me. I'm hateful. A black hole.
"You suck everything in," one of my lovers said to me. He's right. I
don't know how t o stop. Liz got me pills, but I threw them away. I
liked crack better. Ecstacy. Ice-9. TWX. Street names. It's getting
dark. The day was dull grey twilit. Soon it will be time to write.