Subject:      CODY: OLD FRIENDS
From: (Mithryl)
Date:         1997/04/09
Message-Id:   <5igiik$>

                           OLD FRIENDS

                    From the Raw Files Series

                      By CODY ANN MICHAELS
                     c. All rights reserved.

	Going through old files is sort of like looking through a photo
album.  I'm sort of looking for ideas, and also trying to find stuff that
got left out of my first book, "Hurting Cody."  Actually, the fact is, I
don't know whether I used some of this stuf f or not.  When you live like
I do, the reruns sort of start to blend together. 

	I have tons of disks full of letters that guys wrote to me, and
stuff I wrote back.  I try to label everything carefully, but I know there
was a lot of duplication, mainly because I was so strung out back then I
copied stuff over and over, just so it wou ldn't get lost if my hard drive
crashed.  I got real phobic there for awhile.  But now I'm trying to sort
things out and get rid of stuff I don't need. 

	I've been going through some hard times.  First the magazine fired
me.  But they hired me back when I promised them that I had gotten off
drugs.  Even gave me a promotion.  The trouble is, I'm still not clean as
far as wanting to get beat up.  I'm still into as much pain as I can get. 
In fact, being off drugs makes it even worse.  Because now there's no way
to kill the pain.  It's sort of like a new kind of torture, if you know
what I mean. 

	I found this from Michael.

    [The following text is in the "iso-8859-1" character set]
    [Your display is set for the "US-ASCII" character set]
    [Some characters may be displayed incorrectly]


	I am a 32 year old, good looking, professional male, who is VERY
interested in you. 

	I imagine meeting you in a bar, buying you a few drinks,
exchanging small talk. You notice that I keep staring at your long legs
and large breasts.  After a few more drinks, I comment on your beautiful
red hair. On the pretense of reaching over to touch it, my hand goes
roughly across your breast. Realizing that I probably just want to get you
drunk and use your body, you start to back off.  Grabbing you by the hair,
I say "what's the matter, Cody, don't you wanna have some fun?" As I say
this, I blatan tly reach out with my other hand, grab your breast, and
start to squeeze it hard, right through your shirt. 

	Your eyes widen in embarrasement and shame. Trying to pull away
from me, you glance around and realize that no one is gonna try and stop
me. In fact, you notice that many of the guys, and even some of the girls,
are staring, obviously getting aroused. 

	Email me back, if you're interested, and we'll continue. Tell me
in much greater detail what turns you on. Be explicit. 



	Oh yes.  It all comes back.  I had forgotten about Michael, the
scene in the bar.  What happened that night.  Like so many after it.  Or

	I pushed him away, pulling backwards at the same time and knocking
over a barstool, which drew even more attention.

	"Let me go, you asshole," I shouted.

	It got me clipped across the mouth.  Hard.  My head snapped
sideways and I slammed against the bar.  Nobody moved.  Michael moved
closer.  I brought my knee up sharply, aiming for his crotch, but he
stepped aside and buried his fist in my belly.  It doub led me over.  He
pulled my head up.  Again by the hair. 

	"Want some more?"

	"Take her outside if you're going to do that," the bartender said. 

	"No.  No."

	"Want to go outside?"

	"No.  Please."

	He slipped his hand up under the hem of my white dress and put his
fingers in the waistband of my panties, pulling them down.  Everyone was
watching.  I didn't want this.  I could see some girls laughing.  I knew
they wanted to see me whipped. 

	I made another involuntary gesture to pull away again.  This time
he grabbed me by the throat and practically lifted me out of the chair. 
"You, whore, slut.  You came in here looking for trouble, and now you have
it.  So what are you going to do?  Give me a hard time?" 

	"No.  I tried to shake my head, "no", but my body moved under his
fist, swinging.

	He dropped me and I nearly slipped off the stool.  The next thing
I knew he had kicked it out from under me.  I was down on the floor. 
Crawling around.  I was a mess.  My hair was falling in my face, and the
white suitjacket which I had on over the silk dress was getting dirty. 
Michael wouldn't let me get up.  Instead, he said, I was going to give
each of the guys in the bar a blowjob while their girl friends watched. 
He gave me a kick in the chest and told me to get going.

	The closest table was a fat biker.  He watched as I crawled
towards him.  Not moving.  I figured he didn't want me.  But that wasn't
it.  Michael called from the bar.  "You have to unzip his pants, bimbo." I
started to reach out, when a glass smashed in to the back of my head.  It
fell to the floor and shattered. "With your mouth, bitch.  Not your hands. 
Your mouth." 

	I had to crawl up into the biker's lap to reach the tab on his
zipper with my teeth.  Using my tongue, I lifted it, and then bit down. 
Backing away, I slowly pulled it down while Bikeman laughed.  I felt sharp
slices of pain as the glass slashed my knee s and lower legs.  The whole
bar watched as I burrowed my face into Bikeman's crotch, trying to get to
his dick.  He shifted helpfully, and I was suddenly confronted with ten
inches of hammer standing straight up.  Bikeman reached out with his hairy
paw a nd slammed my mouth down around it.  As if that wasn't enough,
Michael walked over from the bar and gave my ass a hard kick.  "Work it,
you fucking slut," he said.  "Work it.  Make me proud." 


	The next piece is with a guy named Scott, who I wrote:

Subject: Re: Interesting idea

	Okay, Scott.  Here's the premise: what would you do if you could
do anything you wanted to me and it was all legal?  i.e. No consequences. 
How far and how deep can you go? 

	When I started this last November, I was amazed at all the
responses I got.  Now, I guess I'm a little jaded.  Essentially, people
write me stories about them and me.  And I respond with one of my own,
usually a continuation of their story or how it w as from my point of

	Niceness does not count.  Humor, imagination and pure, hard core
vicious does.  You start. 



	The fact is, I don't know what Scott wrote, but it must have
turned me on, because this is what I sent him the next time: 


	There must be salvation.

	Oh, please God, let there be salvation.

	The girl's red head was banging up and down on the operating
table.  She saw herself as a third person, someone who was not herself. 


	background noise.

	Cody crawling on the floor, back into a corner.  Being dragged
out.  She wondered about the woman.  Was she into it, or just trying to
please her husband?  Or was he doing it for her?  They had a baby in the
next room, for God's sakes.  How could they do this?

	Oh, I don't know who I am.

	Samantha.  No Sam.  ee....

	They unlocked her from the table and stood her up.  They didn't
even bother to tie her hands.  She was no match for Scott. 

	Once in awhile the woman would whack her around.  But mostly she
just watched.

	Then they dressed her.

	Black miniskirt.  Lace blouse.  High heels.  Stockings.

	And took her downstairs.  On a leash.

	They took her out into the kitchen and Scott lifted her up onto
the stove.  On one of the burners.  It was electric.  She was not wearing
panties.  Welded onto either side of the control panel were two steel
rings.  Samantha pulled my arms back and attac hed the leather cuff on
each wrist to one of the rings.  Scott admired the positioning. 

	"Wait a moment," I said.  "Please."

	I was soaked and I could feel my cunt oozing, dripping onto the

	Scott switched on the knob.  The burner started to warm up.

	"no.  no.  no."

	I tried to scrooch sideways, but that only burned my thigh.  Scott
turned on the other burners.  I tried to move the other way.  He turned up
the heat. 


	I couldn't believe I could move and twist like that.  No matter
which way, I turned, however, something came down on the hot stove.

	It wasn't red hot.  Not yet.  But it was hot.

	I realized that was what they wanted.  To see me tie myself into a

	Samantha fixed them both drinks.  "You know," she said, "it's much
more interesting when you let the girl do the work." 

	"I know," Scott replied.  "But I like to beat them up." 

	"Oh, of course.  That's what she's there for.  But I mean, all the
gadgets.  You see how much action you can get out of a simple stove." 

	I was banging my head against the wall.  It hurt so bad.

	"She'll do anything to get off there.  And you don't have to raise
a finger." 

	"I wonder what other ordinary household devices we could use on
her?  Things that anyone would have about the house." 

	"How about the vaccuum?"

	"Or the...  My God, will you listen to that?"

	"There's my electric drill."

	"Maybe we ought to turn it off.  Give her a rest."

	"And the jonny mop.  Okay.  Turn it off."

	The heat gradually subsided.  I was twisted up on top of the
stove.  My whole body. 

	"It's interesting to watch how she acts between sessions.  Don't
you think?  I mean, the way she lies there, twitching.  Crying.  Why don't
we go into the living room.  It's more comfortable." 

	It took the poor girl a long time to come to her senses.  Samantha
and Scott were patient.  They knew Cody was worth waiting for.  They were
willing to take all the time they needed.

	The next letter, from Gregory had a fivolous tone:

	Fear not, m'lady, I'll save you.  I shall slay the evil monster
and release you from your bonds (unless you request otherwise). 

	Hey, I'm young, attractive, fun, successful, and I like about 5
million things.  Seeking attractive female.  It just so happens that we
both have these dark, twisted, bondage/rape fantasies.  Would love to know
more about you... 

	If you grace me with a reply, please send the following items:

     1 joke
     1 description of lovely self
     1 flirtatious statement (optional)
     1 critique of my E-mail

Greg of BD


Subject: Re: Knight Seeks Damsels in Distress

Dear Greg

	1.  A joke.  He beats the shit out of me and he wants jokes.  Oh
God, where do they come from?  S & M is serious stuff.  Okay.  I'm
thinking.  Don't hit me again.  There was a walrus and a carpenter.  And
they... named Pat and Mike.  I was never any good at jokes.  WHAM! aaaaii. 
Oh please.  And the bagel said, don't spread it on me.  Get it? Don't...
oh don't...  please. 

	2. Why thank you.  Well, as you can see, I have an adorable face,
with high cheek bones, sorta of like Nicole Simpson's.  And I...  Simpson? 
She was O.J.'s wife.  He's a football player.  You mean you never heard of
O.J. Simpson?  You've got to be kiddi ng.  He killed his wife.  People say
I look like her.  Except I have long curly red hair.  She was a blonde.  I
have nice legs, too.  He used a knife.  And sorta large breasts.  Yeah. 
39.  I'm not kidding.  Don't you watch television?  Well, there's a whole
spread in this month's Vogue.  That will give you some idea. 

	3.  Of course I want to give you a blowjob.

	4.  I hate questionnaires.  I hate people who ask me to describe
myself.  I hate being beat up by assholes.  I hate having to give men
blowjobs to keep them from beating the shit out of me.  It's so degrading. 
It's like being broken in half and thrown o n the floor and stomped on. 
Like I have absolutely no control.  I hate that.  I hate it when other
people control me.  Like a puppet.  A toy.  Something they can play with. 
Or they hit me.  Like he did.  I'd rather go through that then answer
another questionnaire.  Why don't they just look and see what's in front
of them?  Oh, it's a big one, isn't it?  I never saw one that big.  I'm
choking.  God damnit, I'm choking. 




	So you can see, I have a lot to remember.  That's just three of
them.  They kept me pretty busy.  There were dozens more.  Trouble is, I
can't seem to remember most of them.  Maybe it's from getting bashed
around so much.  Brain damage.  Or being strung out.  God, I did every
thing in the book.  Half the time I wasn't even conscious.  So it's nice
to have these records.  To look back on.  Frankly, I don't think I could
do that anymore.  I mean, maybe it's because I can't get interested, or
not being able to repeat myself.  Or maybe it's just that I've moved on to
another plane.  One where the torture is self inflicted from the inside
out.  Instead of the other way around.  Like I don't need those guys
anymore.  They were assholes anyway.  Crude.  Clumsy.  I practically had
to show them how to do it.  But now I've got it inside me.  Where it
belongs.  Like some kind of razor.  Slicing me apart.  Knowing I could
take something to stop it, and refusing to.  Every night a torture
session, and every day worse , because I have to go out and work with
people.  Fashion week started today.  Being there with all those models. 
Trying to keep it together.  Telling myself no one notices.  Everyone is
too busy.  But knowing they aren't.  Knowing Liz knows.  And Rita. 
Knowing what they probably think.  She's doing it again.  But I'm not. 
I'm going straight.  I promise.  God, I want to spew all over the fucking

	I want a fix.  I would sell my soul for a jar of crack right now. 
Ecstacy.  Anything.  Just keep focused.  The first day it's Anand Jon and
Versus.  When do you have time to write anything? 

	Someone who called himself Tristan wrote:


	I love You

	I wrote back:

	Oh Tris, I am not worthy of you.  I'm such a whore.  You should
forget about me. 

	If you only knew how dirty I am.  What a slut.

	You are so wonderful.  You make me feel so beautiful.  I want to
dance with you in your castle, to have you hold me in your arms. 

	But I know it can never happen.  Eventually, you would despise me. 
And then I would be more miserable than ever. 

	Please, please Tristan, always remember me and never forget how
much I loved you.  And have a nice life.  And don't forget to write.  And
always wear your galoshes.  And take your cough medicine.  And wear a
condom.  And put the toilet seat down after yo u piss.  And go to bed
early.  And wear your overcoat.  And buckle your shoes.  And follow your
heart.  And drink your milk.  And don't get drunk.  And get your hand out
of my crotch. 

	Your lady of the Mystic Isles.


	And so it goes.  Even the possibility of love, I threw away.  Why? 
Why did I hate myself so much?  I could not tell.  I just wanted to be
hurt.  I still do. 

	I was so arrogant, as the following letters will demonstrate:

> I liked your letter, it sounds very interesting. I am 29 years old and I
would pass for Burt Reynolds son, My father is a splitting image of him. 
I am 6'0" and wiegh in at 195 lbs medium build, brown hair and hazel eyes. 
I don't have a mustache, somet imes a beard in the winter. I enjoy talking
about fantasies with women, I hope we can talk about ours...  >

	Okay, Burt's Squirt, here's the premise: what would you do if you
could do anything you wanted to me and it was all legal?  etc. 

From Ironass:

> I'm intrested in your problem.. I've been with a female who neede the
same thing.. I was just geeting into it when she had to move away.... 

	What problem, Ironass?

	If you want to "geet" into it with me, tell me what you'd do to
her.  It better be good. 



> I'm extremely interesting, and I think I can give you exactly what you
need.  I'll warn you though - none of us will give you any mercy.  Once
you're ours, you're ours... 
	Okay, extremely interesting Smu.  Do it.  But you'd better be
good.  You have some heavy (and very dirty minded competition). 


	None of these went anywhere.  They were just guys who thought it
would be fun to beat up a girl, and then discovered they didn't want to. 
A lot of guys were like that.  The fantasy was interesting.  The
opportunity was not.  Or it was too much.  It brou ght up a whole shit
load of ... well, shit.  Stuff they didn't know was in there.  You mean
you want me to hit you?  Yes.  Do it.  What I wanted was for him to hit me
without being asked.  Like it was his idea.  His responsibility.  Like I
was a total vic tim.  It's hard to be a victim.  Because everyone is
trying so hard to preserve their image as a nice guy.  You practically
have to lie down in the street and get run over for someone to hurt you. 
Or draw a map.  I spelled it out as clearly as I could.  Fist.  Face. 
Yours.  Mine.  Hit it.  Do it.  Please. 

	Uh, no.  You're too cute to mess up.  Sometimes I had to call them
all sorts of names before they'd haul off and slap me.  "How'd you get the
black eye?" Liz asked.  Liz was my shrink back then.  "How do you think?" 
Want to talk about it.  No.  I curled up in the chair and held myself in. 
You really did it?  Yes.  Fuck.  I knocked the ashtray over.  What did you
do?  I poured his drink in his lap. 

	I saw it in a movie.  A stripper does that to a guy who's coming
on to her.  Everyone laughs.  It isn't so funny later.  Boy, he was mad. 
Him and his pal.  Maybe I don't want to talk about this.  Not remember. 
Maybe this is where it starts to hurt.  Re ally goes deep.  Like a knife. 
Don't.  dont

	He wanted me to pay for his drink.

	I knew I was just marking time.  Holding on until the next one
came.  Making it last.  oh god, make it last.  this time.  Blood on my red
dress.  Fucking cunt.  uggh Can't make sound effects like that.  Again. 
ua knee Did they rape you?  I nodded.  I thought maybe I could go back and
rewrite those stories.  Make them longer.  More detailed.  WHAM.  It's
hard to expand on a blow.  A sucker punch.  Going down in the mud. 
Feeling my dress rip.  Coming up.  Being dragged up.  Being slapped.  The
flash of light in my eyes as the hand hits me.  You wanted this.  I did. 
I had it coming.  He kneed me again in the crotch.  Oh yes.  Do it.  Old
times.  One held me while the other fucked me.  I fought like crazy.  But
it didn't do no good.  I was too weak for them.  I came too.  It was late
morning.  I had to walk home from there.  With my clothes ripped.  Holding
them on.  One stocking falling down.  Tripping over my feet.  People
looking.  Nose bleeding.  My face all dirty.  My hair tangled in a mess. 
Crying.  Sick drunk.  Shamed of what they did to me.  Feeling sick. 
Pissed.  How many time do you have to do that before you get wise?  I did
it a lot.  I was a total slut.  You remember what happened?  They poured
kerosene on my body and set me on fire.  I burned.  Like a witch.  I was
totally consumed.  Then why am I here?  Going through this all over, from
the inside out? 

	Because it's fashion week, and a whole new way of looking at
things.  Getting rid of the old stuff.  Spotting the gnu.  The new ewe. 
"As always, Versus by Versace kicks off fashion week.  For a peek at their
fall look, Emma Balfour models a black matte jersey asymmetrical dress
with leather bra."  Cool, huh? 

	"The Halston name lives on with a new line that offers sexy
evening wear like this cashmere cowl neck column dress with fox-trimmed

	For the moment, at least, I had escaped into my work.  I was in
the second row.  With Kate and Lisa.  I scribbled madly in my notebook,
pretending to work.  Actually, I was having a smack attack.  I drew
sketches of the models on the runway.  They looked like stick figures. 
Kate waved.  I waved back.  Lisa looked at me.  You okay?> Yeah.  I'll be
fine.  My drawings would be in the June issue.  We have to go to Issac's
studio.  It's way downtown.  I was shaking.  I have to go to the bathroom. 
He only h as one toilet.  That can be a problem.  We go to a lot of
parties.  There's one tonight.  Lend me your comb.  I have to put on some
makeup.  What happened to you?  I poured a drink in his lap. 

	That's a nice leather jacket.  Don't you think you should
accessorize it?  Say a skirt.  Or at least panties.  And you might try
fixing your makeup.  What happened to you> I poured a beer in his crotch. 
And he made you lick it out, right?  Yeah.  What did you expect?  For him
to laugh?  Treat it like a big joke?  Don't make me laugh.  You're such a
treat.  WHAM.  She bounced off the wall.  Try this one on for size.  This
one sent her careening down the runway, out of control.  Totally
disoriented.  Sta ring into the lights.  Blinded.  She just missed the
edge.  She turned and walked back.  He hit her. 

	Cody crawled down the runway between two rows of chairs.  It's not
the clothes so much, but what kind of show you put on.  You've got to know
how to show them.  Battered women is a big theme.  Crash.  The little
redhead went over the back of a chair and crashed.  Come on, get up, pig. 
She was playing for time.  Eventually, it would stop.  It had too.  She
just had to hold out until it did.  Waiting for the pain to go away.  What
had happened?  She tried to remember those guys.  But by now, they were a
f uzzy dream.  Back there in antiquity.  Merged together with all the
other child beaters and inquisitionists.  Waiting to burn her.  Hurt her. 
Torment her again.  She crawled up on a chair, huffing.  Trying to catch
breath.  Just breathe.  It's not so bad .  It hit her again.  From inside. 
Like it was responding to the killers.  Through her.  Using her as a
go-between.  Between what?  The present and the past?  Yin and yang?  If
she just thought.  A little more.  Just a little.  It subsided.  If she
used her head, she could make it go away.  At least stop for a moment. 
Use her brain to figure it out.  What was happening.  To her.  Inside her. 
Out.  There.  Where the show was.  Work on the show.  The drawings. 
Scribble scribble.  Keep writing.  Just don 't think.  Don't look back
over your shoulder.  Next time will be worse.  Don't even think about it. 
Who were those guys?  Scott and... who.  Scott had a wife.  Too.  Her. 
She was worse than he.  Encouraged him.  Egged him on.  Just so she could
see Cod y bleed.  Liked to watch.  While he did all the work.  What was
she waiting for?  Why holding back?  So she could get in the final coup de
gra?  The last smack.  It lifted the top of her head off.  No.  She wanted
to comfort Cody as she was in pain.  Sam wanted to feel her through his
gun.  Didn't you, Cody?  Yes.  Oh god yes.  I want it so bad.  Do it.  She
sucked around the barrel like it was a fat tit.  Tonguing it out. 
Cleaning his gun for him.  Before he shot her.  Now she remembered.  The
bullet tore her brain out.  Wasn't thjat it?  She was totally braindead. 
Wasn't she?  She crawled up tighter into her brain.  Trying to escape. 
Another one pulled out his gun and let her have it.  Her neck jerked. 
Hywel.  My gopd, Hy, don't.  his hand just brushed the generator and she
sqwauled against the wind like a jammer trying to decode the univers.  She
shut herself in and locked the door.  Behind her.  She was safe.  She knew
she was.  Then it hit her.  There was a backdoor.  She discov ered her own
perfect body from inside out.  Like a colonoscopy.  Moving around inside
her like a television camera, she was on stage, all over the universe. Now
you take one.  I picked her out.  What's her name.  You'll find out.  Now
take her and begone .  We ran down out of the marketplace and crossed the
square.  Something was happening, but we didn't know what it was, my young
wife curled into a ball.  Many people were running.  Was it an uprising? 
No, senor, stay calm, it is nothing, just the gods r attling us.  What is
it?  The woman is here, my lord.  Oh yes, thank you.  Come in, child. 
Show me your panties.  That's all he wanted.  To see my white underwear. 
Then I left and went downtown.  We was standing around when the cop came
up to us and wan ted a thrill.  You know what that was.  Of course.  I
heard her say it to Louise.  You get a lot of garbage.  You can say that
again.  My God, I never saw such ugly clothes before.  Isn't grunge over? 
Wait til you see Apollo.  He was in such a snit.  And all over a silly old
earring.  I have tons of them.  He got him off.  You see, this shows you
standing next to the motorcycle before you put your helmet on.  It was a
doctored photo.  But he didn't know that.  So he rightly assumed I did it. 
But I didn' t.  I was a patsy.  Setup.  I didn't know when I went into
that bar, Kelly had set me up.  They were gunning for her.  But I was just
like her.  So he rightly assumed I did it.  Kelly sent me out into that
pit with no makeup on and looking like this.  Whe re am I?  Too many glam
nights and grungeless days.  It tears you apart.  You're not sure what's
happening.  You make a mistake.  No one cares.  You're just there for the
hor d'ourves.  Darling, this is scumptuous.  And afterwards, you crawl
home and fal l asleep on the shower floor.  With the water pouring over
you.  Washing away the blood. 

	I've got a bad cough.  Smokers cough.  Hacking my lungs.  I'm a
real pain pussy.  Everyone knows it.  But they keep me around for laughs. 
I'm a party girl.  Someone to service your drink or tell a joke or two. 
Advise the prince.  Politic.  Cautious.  A nd aware.  Of where the bodies
are buried and the knives put in.  How old did you say you were? 
Thirteen.  I am not Prince Hamlet nor was meant to be.  Am only an
attendant ward, my Lord.  This is my daughter.  She looked just like me. 
Now you see the s ignificance of the double, he said.  She does what you
do but you don't get hurt.  I could see myself in that.  Dress.  The one
with the lace underwear.  Showing through the mesh.  Her butt stuck out. 
Whining, for old times.  This is now, Baby.  Get with the program or get
laid.  The tent was on fire.  I don't know if you're familiar with fashion
week, but it's done in tents in Bryant Park, and only the hoity toity can
get in.  Other times, it's just the homeless.  In fact, these are the
homeless, the no bodies adrift in the world of Seventh Avenue.  Women's
Wear Daily.  The pits.  I used to work there.  A hundred years ago.  When
John was still chairman.  This year, he's out here with the rest of us. 
An old bagman for the Mafia.  Smiling demure out at m e.  As he did when I
was first hired and tried to impress him.  Believe me, it didn't work.  We
were in his office.  I was so amazed to be there.  What do you want to do? 
he asked.  I couldn't think of anything.  So he let go.  It was so boring. 
Maybe fo r him.  But I had a ball.  I couldn't get enough of it.  Is that
really me?  I felt such a grunge.  That haircut.  I can't believe I wore
something like that.  Turn it off.  Show something else.  What do you want
to do?  He asked again.  I was confused.  All my pretensions were gone. 
Shot to hell.  He was amazing.  He looked at me.  I knew he didn't want to
say it again.  I came up with something.  Some useless inanity.  I don't
know what it was.  A few weeks later, they fired me.  That was that.  Or
was it?  Put your dress down.  It wasn't going to work.  Showing my pussy. 
Was it?  How many beaver had he seen in his days?  Go on.  Do it again. 
If you think it will help.  Shoot up even more.  Go on.  Do it.  Why not
just put a gun in your mouth and pul l the trigger if that's all you're
going to do?  Brady was waiting.  Outside.  ooooooh.  In the car.  It
hurts.  Do it again, Cody.  oh You know what I want to do?  You know that
girl out there with the leather miniskirt?  I think I know who you mean. 
T he blonde.  With big eyes.  And short hair.  Yes.  Go on.  I want to
drop kick her across the press room.  On the sixth floor.  While the
printers watch.  As sort of a going away present.  He gave me the go
ahead.  Her name was Heather.  And she was thirt een.  And I wiped up the
floor with her.  They never saw anything like it.  A few weeks later, he
was dead.  Now that says a lot about fashion.  It says we can now take the
gloves off and go head to head.  Mano a manolita.  Dance, slut.  Pig. 
Fucking scu mbag.  That's how I imagined it as I walked back to my desk. 
Lolita sat on the other side of me.  She looked at me with luminous big
eyes.  Come on, Cookie, make my day.  It took a long time.  Planning.  But
I finally got there.  I got this.  I held her up.  And dropped her. 
Anyone who wants can have her.  I'm through.  The street went nuclear.  It
was such a sensation.  I needed time out.  A break.  Anything in the
monotony of having to cover another fashion show.  You just get numb.  It
comes to you.  Suddenly.  This is it.  I'm here.  I don't have to struggle
any more.  I knew she had me.  It was only a matter of time.  The
transition was linear, but the progression was geometrical.  This theme
prevailed throughout the week.  Now, Marvin, what are we looking for. 
Exactly.  Well, you're looking for big balloons over people's heads that
shows them what they're thinking.  And you are also trying to see if
anyone knows what happened to John.  Is he coming back?  Or is the show
really over?  Reaction is very spotty.  Notice what this girl is wearing. 
It could be you.  Grunge.  Your drawings are marvelous.  They just catch
the show.  I wasn't even looking.  I was doodling.  Someone called it art. 
I don't know.  Can you fix it?  I think so.  God, it's so wearing.  Feed
this into a blender and see what comes out.  The food theme is
entertaining.  I could eat a horse.  Has this girl fallen down there or is
it part of the show?  I couldn't get up.  The girls walked all over me. 
Parallel floors offer a spli t screen personality to blend through into
the evergreen.  Do you always write like this?  I could get you a job.  At
women's wear daily.  You could change clothes all the time there and not
get caught.  She tried it on.  The stuff they brought back from the
showrooms.  Try this.  They didn't even go into the bathroom to change. 
It was right on the floor.  Don't pay any attention.  She always talks
like that.  She really likes it.  Don't you, Cody?  uh huh. 

	Turnover was rather rapid.  I wasn't surprised to get fired.  In
those days, everyone did drugs.  So it wasn't that.  I guess I was just
past the age when John likes them.  It wasn't even me in the bathroom. 
Now go across and kiss your Aunt Maggie.  The y're going to take you home
with them.  I was getting past the point when I could be saved.  That's
just the point.  Everyone is capable of redemption.  At any time.  All you
have to do is accept Jesus as your personal savior, and you will be saved. 
Not a whore like me.  No way.  My junky days are over.  But I'm still a
pig, rooting in the dirt.  Despised.  Beaten.  I think he really hurt me
this time. 

	If you go back there this time, they'll put you in charge.  You'll
have to put out a magazine.  Are you up to it?  I don't think so.  Good. 
That will make you more vulnerable.  To what?  Attack.  Smack attack. 
You're lying.  For a moment I had the sens ation I was where he was. 
Looking at me.  And then it passed.  I wasn't worthy.  In that moment, I
had seen myself through his eyes.  And knew what I looked like.  I was
talking about myself.  I crawled out of there with my tail between my
legs.  Wrapped up into my underbelly.  It took a moment to see what it
was.  He had shoved something up my ass and I had a tail.  Whipping
beneath my leather skirt.  Sticking out behind in a big plume.  Everyone
in the office knew what I was.  The mascot.  And I've had it to this day. 
Stuck up my ass as if it were a part of me.  Cunt tail pussy tail.  At
first, learning to sit was a problem.  I had to sort of like half stand,
with my ass up in the air.  Over a chair.  Trying to hit the keyboard.  No
problem. I sent my copy to the spell checker.  The girl with the buttplug. 
Waving her tail.  Afterwards, whenever I saw him, I would like try to
catch his eye.  But he never looked at me.  I kept trying to get
attention, but I got fired. 

	Instead.  Each word led to another, and then I said something, and
it was all over.  Every model knows when she's over the hill.  It just
comes to her.  Like she's lying in the garbage out in the alley when she
wakes up, and she says, this doesn't look l ike Kansas.  Isaac's showroom
has vanished like a bauble in the night.  You don't even know how to get
there.  It's downtown.  I know. But where?  We must find out.  Julie, do
you know where Issac's studio is?  Downtown.  I know.  But where?  It's a
mirac le that anyone shows up.  But where had it gone?  She stepped
through a door marked exit, and the next thing she knew, she was here.  So
what do you want me to do?  Lighten up.  Give her some air.  You'll be
alright, miss.  That was a nasty spill.  I thou ght it was his.  Was it or
wasn't?  Show the clips.  As if anyone's interested.  Downtown.  Grunge
Sunday.  I was hoping you'd say that.  Well, what of it?  I have to put it
out.  It's consuming us.  Do you have any more?  I think those are all
gone.  Seven floors is a long way to fall.  Most of the time she was in
freefall, but then her face kissed the wall.  Each seat had a name on it. 
You had to find yours.  By the time she got seated, the show was half
over.  She took out her pad and began to sketch.