The word ‘Shit Mongrel’ is being tossed around too much these days. You see the word scrawled out on bathroom walls, behind the stall door, the word ‘shit’’ in all caps, ‘mongrel’ written underneath, dangling like a piece of crap to the word, ‘shit’.
It’s a complex statement. Usually you find the word by accident, hiding near the tail end of a positive piece of poetry, faded over time by repeated efforts to scrub it from history, as if only arcane phone numbers leading to God knows who’s mailbox are allowed to exist.
And there are the numbers themselves, hastily written digits with a lone name attached to it.
“Call 555-5555 for a blow job. Ask for Robbie.”
As I squeeze out the first signs of a massive shit to come, I realize poor Robbie probably doesn’t want a dick anywhere near his mouth. This is what ‘friends’ do for you in their free time.
I suddenly find the word I’ve been looking for. There it is, halfway hidden, written in the chipped grout work enamel like a convict’s last testament to his poor, pitiful existence–SHIT MONGREL.
I inhale and hold my breath and push as hard as I dare, my anus feeling like it might rupture with the slightest miscalculation of pressure. I feel the heavy solid of my waste shift in my lower intestine, and I hunker back down to wait it out to move further down the tract. Too much effort and my anus will be too raw to finish the job.
Many folk like me have sat in this exact spot, pondering the universe in all its glorious glory. The last stall. The door doesn’t close all the way and opens up on its own random times, letting you scramble to reclose it, holding your pants up, keeping your ass cheeks cocked just so, so that the shit covering your ass crack won’t drip down on your shoes.
Finally, you jerry rig the bastard with whatever you can find, hoping that it’s a quick fix and the people coming in won’t come around the corner. Fuck ‘em if they do.
The word ‘Shit Mongrel’ flashes through my mind as I finish up. I’ll have to shit again soon and who knows where it will be, but there the word will be regardless, the same messy writing from a crack-addicted hand, the same nonchalant effort to hide it in a special spot that you can only notice when you’re looking for something else.
I imagine the person who first came up with the idea, how bored he must have been, how he must have felt really lucky to have had a pen on him at that point in time.
‘Shit Mongrel’ must have come to him as easily as the runs as he just opened his ass cheeks up and let the water and shit blast from his anus, the pen sketching those first loops on the concrete wall.
I flush for the final time and pull up my pants and stand staring down at my shoes.
There is shit on them.
Now I know what the word meant.
It means you cannot escape the act of shitting, no matter how civilized you think you are. You will always be reduced back down to squatting over some hole, relieving yourself accordingly, covering yourself in it, becoming it–becoming the Shit Mongrel.
Church time. It’s five in the morning and I’m driving down Hilltop Boulevard pointing at the sleepy-eyed hookers swaying on the street corners in the morning light.
“You,” I say to them and tell them to get in the back.
“We’re going to church,” I say next.
I’ve got around five of them this morning, and God do they stink to high Heaven. Well, when you wash yourself in truck stops between fucks all day long, you’d smell like a decomposing corpse too.
Church church church. Church is a fucking mansion on 5th and 7th downtown beside the Opec Arena, and since it’s still so Goddamned early, we’ve beaten the Sunday rush hour.
I pass up the old fuckers just now scuttling to their cars in their Sunday best and I give ‘em the finger.
“Beat ya, Grandpa!”
I get the evil eye from some old fake Vietnam Vet.
He knows, I think. See, old people are human, too. No, they’re not all smiles and well wishes, like all the movies would have you believe. They’re lying sacks of turds is what they are. You can’t tell me they don’t take some kind of sick pride getting up that Goddamn early in the morning, before even the fucking cock’s got a chance to pick the crusty feathers from his butt to get up and crow? Fuck no!
Old people get up so early because they can’t sleep. It’s true. Grandpa and Grandma go to bed so early because they know they’re going to be getting up fifty times a night to pace, to eat, fidget and shit, and just fucking worry about being so goddamned old, and so close to ever increasing death. Anyhow, I’ve lost my point. We all die anyway, so…Grandpa’s pissed.
The church isn’t even fucking open. I take out my pills from my pocket and pop a couple Vicodin in my mouth and turn on the radio. Christian Hits F.M. blares over the speakers and the whores hold their heads.
One of them speaks after sitting in the car for an hour. It’s a whore’s classic voice. Scratchy, perpetually yawning, perpetually sticky from dehydration, and completely, utterly brainless.
“Yah knooow…like, we’re just sitting here.”
“I know, baby. Just try to get some sleep. Daddy’s gonna make it all better, okay? We’re almost there.”
“Well now, they have plenty of food in there, once we get inside.”
“What are you laughing at, bitch?!”
“They don’t got no food in there!”
“Yah know what?! You’re a dumb twat, yah know that?!”
“Shut up, both of yah! Now listen–”
“I dont have to put up with this shit–”
“Listen! Shut up. You hear me? I’ll reach back there and slap the hell out of you if you think I won’t.”
“Stop fighting!” The whore named Jenny turns to me. “Jimmy, what are we doing out here? The place isn’t even open!”
I pretend to be thinking for a second, running my finger in the beard hair under my lip.
“You’re a distraction,” I say.
There, I’d said it. Of course it was a lie, though. Five whores sitting spaced out between pews on opposite sides of the church was my way of perpetuating what I call Psychosocial Injection. The so called plan was to have the whores mock and berate all who they see as being somehow inferior to their own self-depraved ways. A challenge in itself, I know, yes, but I simply informed the gals that all they needed to do was think of it as a form of punishment for the normal congregation being too good for their own good. That you ladies are simply there for good moral support, to help the needy. That God looks down on liars and fools and laughs like a Navaho Indian.
The girls just looked at me. This was gonna be good.
So this church had a long and terrible name, Jesus Christ of Hilltop Scattering Faith Among His Flock or some shit like that. It was all bullshit and those pills were kicking in so I got out of the car and told the whores to get to work. They just looked at me dumb ass shit like, and I said go inside the church for Christ’s sake, and then they did.
I sat in the back and turned on an old tape recorder I’d bought at an old pawn shop. I flicked the switch and recorded the identifier.
“This is Jim Vlarney, reporting. I have five this week. Social data experiment test run number seven’s a go.”
I looked down the long pews as the elderly filed in through the majestic doors. Old shuffling feet, dead on the ground, but eyes that darted around judging everything in sight like a carnivorous hedghog.
I was not free from notice. I spied an old man looking at me. He was down there holding his cane in front of him like some sort of septor.
Clearly he wanted to confront me, so I saved him the trouble and got right the fuck up and went over and sat down beside the old codger.
“You fucking brat, I told you not to come back,” said he.
“Shut it, Grandpa. I got the dibs on you.”
“You lazy low life. I aughta punch your lights out for talking to me that way.”
“You missed me.”
“Pshaw! Not in a hundred years.”
I stared straight ahead. “Low life…I’ll tell you what, Grandpa, you see these people?”
“Yeah, look at ‘em. They need some help, to me.”
“Help? Ha! Help…What you know about helping anyone?”
“You don’t get it do you, Gramps. It’s not about me, it’s about them.”
“Who?” He said it like a sarcastic tortured owl sitting on a shit covered branch. “Who’s you talking about, boy?”
I pointed at the old and young, the sick and poor and rich and irreverent. I pointed at the priest lumbering head held down to the pulpit deep in hypocritical prayer, I pointed at everyone in sight. I didn’t point at the whores.
“These people. These fake ones. These that are caught up in the glory of caring nothing about anything or anyone else other than themselves.”
“You can’t be serious,” said the old man. “You are but dumbfuddled, I do declare. Who do you think you are? Huh? Perfect? Shhhh…” the old man shook his head, “No, no, no…you are as guilty as the rest of us. Maybe a little bit younger, a bit stronger, but just as troubled and far from reason as the rest of us. Dumb little tramp. You got some cajones coming up in here to insult your elders like that. I aughta…”
But then I heard one of the whores scream. Two of them were fighting over the collection plate change. The preist was running down the isle trying to break them up, while people of good repute scattered left and right, the whores fell down in the isle fighting and screaming and cursing God’s name as women covered children’s ears, and men stood shaking their heads hands on hips.
My plan was bust.
Grandpa turned to me and smiled. “I told ya so, sonny. I guess you don’t belong afterall.”
Then I punched Grandpa’s lights out and the old yodel fell face first head hitting the pew.
Now my whores were being chased out the front doors of the church, high heels and giggling asses and all.