Screaming Jay Hawkins, Part Two

Jalacy sawed the months out, minus one fingernail, a human spittoon brought full and nocturnally splintered across the marquee of his alleged comrades. Only people with blue eyes are capable of memorizing military tactics, so ask them twice, he said, instead of me. Most of his captors spoke the same darting gibberish. They taught him a torture more refined than any colony. Guards popped a sealant of piss around his head until all he had was character. He was rooted down from cuticle to a matrix of formally embedded nerves. His interrogator utilized a whiter accent than the movies and boasted about attending Harvard. Every race became a burnt effigy of itself, such was the mania for paperwork. He turned jocular when Jalacy sang at him. Their cornered outfit had been marched through camp still half asleep. The girl in tow hopped in the drink with expertise at the mere suggestion of her sleeping near enemy troops.

When they broke Jalacy by his own admission that there was no home worth escaping to, he wept only because of the hard-on he sported for murdering everyone involved. Cutting Jalacy, they grew tired of his encouragement. His blood was like a neon sign yanked out of him by drunk magicians. He insisted on becoming their most impressive filet mignon and purred where the abounding white kids vied with their tattle tale deity. His diploma had scales on it. He told Harvard several riddles concerning women. They handed him a private bathroom, but he had lost forty pounds and was down to passing his bowels once a week. When he took a shit, he asked everybody if they had a familiar feeling. The second the allies recaptured the camp, he slit Harvard’s throat with a rock, put all ten fingers inside the hole, and stretched his scream into a silo. He stuffed an unsnapped grenade down the shorts of an abrupt guard and kicked the strew that followed into a sort of tail for his top part. He bade smoke from the man’s mouth into a meager signal of emancipation. The brass, keen on rehiring him, stored his medals in the latrine.

He already felt contradicted by most winds, so Alaska didn’t faze him. The gloves he tucked into everyone’s chin frayed quickly. He proceeded to punch people until they gave him gigs again. Other singers mocked the many ways he came for an audience. He acted as a bodyguard for those with friendlier attributes. He wrung out spare pussy and toured a switchblade against managers and club owners alike. He was told he was a father often. It helped him yawn. On some affable white DJ’s dime, he stuck African wildlife up his nostril to concoct an ashy halo with the amount of mucus necessary to make a difference in the world. His outfitted kebob, speared in cauldrons, glinting ghost of chitterlings, earrings purring against a nicotine skull, the jungle cornered in his lids. He only unzipped for autographs. Feline cartilage queued by a swoon gynecological in its pH balance. Gals decolored his plank. The following sex unfurled so much map, a century later they were still counting kids. His bastards had to take a lottery of themselves to somehow matter.

He paused too long in the body of another singer, long enough for her to have him feel designated between the glands. She shot him in the stomach, but with a small caliber pistol, proof their affections were becoming overly mutual. His stint as a POW flashbacked the most whenever they shared a cuddle. He rigged the rooms they slept in with claymore mines. The night she hugged him and said: we can’t leave a song undestroyed, he dove into his suitcase to shun the subsequent perusal of emotions. There was an engine behind his need to see her that could stall the clouds. There was a locomotion behind his dependency on her that could fuck the clouds until they chased you down as every animal. Or so a couple rejected lyrics implied.

Why not suck a wine with friends? No skull etched loose from its terrible packet winked towards rape in competent enough proportions anyway. He played limbo with stab wounds of nonsense, came back holding a trophy full of tapeworms, causing nymphos worldwide to frisk themselves or fuck his tar through their cribs so the first chalkboard tasted like mace. He showed Christ the penthouse in his colon. He goosed the fat bitch till every opera went extinct. Jalacy buried the word want under hell, where it belongs. When he had finished belting his echo, it ping ponged about the fugaciously clenched atmosphere, but both ears stayed ringing after his every soiled coffin. He went outside and voided the overtly pickled contents of his stomach onto the street. Rooms he kempt were inveigled by the anvil in his esophagus and he was careful to heave it all over anybody’s brave request. If he commenced a gobble, walls became humpbacked. He impersonated a pen of herniated oxen sharing a two-by-four. The vector of his gonad fated him to deplorable volumes. He died several outings of worrisome prestige no movie had the cake to behold. He drew cattle on their money. Although we hurry the story to lick each credit, twigs munching in the refuted colony of Jalacy’s asswipe, seven decades anally marooning him with a prolapsed nervous system, the man sang a song that teased his stork’s clit enough to drop him in a canyon before the world could close its hole.


Sean Kilpatrick, raised in Detroit, does monthly movie reviews for Hobart Literary Journal. Other writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Nerve, New York Tyrant, Boston Review, Fence, Sleepingfish, Fanzine, Vice, evergreen review, Whiskey Island, andBomb. His novella Sucker June, was released by Lazy Fascist Press. Check out his tumblr.