The Informers - Bret Easton Ellis [70]
“I usually hate skinny chicks,” I’m telling her. “But you look great.”
“Skinny chicks suck?” she asks.
“Hey—that’s pretty funny,” I tell her.
“Is it?” she asks, slack, washed out.
“I’m into you anyway.”
We take my car and drive over to the Valley, into Encino. I tell her a joke.
“What do you call an Ethiopian wearing a turban?”
“Is this a joke?”
“Q-Tip,” I say. “That really cracks me up. Even you must admit it’s riotous.”
The girl is too stoned to respond to the joke but she manages to ask, “Does Michael Jackson live around here?”
“Yep,” I say. “He’s a buddy.”
“I’m really impressed,” she says ungratefully.
“I only went to one party after the Victory tour and it was really shitty,” I tell her. “I hate hanging out with niggers anyway.”
“That’s not exactly the nicest thing you could say.”
“Mellow out,” I groan.
In my room she’s into it and we’re fucking wildly and when she starts to come I begin to lick and chew at the skin on her neck, panting, slavering, finding the jugular vein with my tongue, and I start bleeding her and she’s laughing and moaning and coming even harder and blood is spurting into my mouth, splashing the roof, and then something weird starts to happen and I get really tired and nauseous and I have to roll off her and that’s when I realize that this girl is not drunk or stoned but that she’s on some, as she puts it now, “way-out fucking drugs.”
“Ecstasy? LSD? Is it smack?” I’m gagging.
She lies there silently.
“Oh Christ no,” I say, feeling it. “It’s … heroin,” I croak.
“Oh shit. Now I’m majorly tripping.”
I roll off the bed onto the floor, naked, my head killing me, this poison cramping my stomach up, and I crawl toward the bathroom, and all the time this fucking drugged-out bitch who has snapped out of her stupor is now crawling along with me, squealing “Let’s play let’s play let’s play you’re a cowboy and I’m a squaw, got it?” and I growl at her, trying to scare her, showing her my teeth, the fangs, my horrible transformed mouth, my eyes black, lidless. But she doesn’t freak out, just laughs, completely high. I finally make it to the toilet and on my back vomit up her blood in geysers and then pass out with the door closed, on the floor. I wake the next night, groggy, her blood dried all over my face and neck and chest. I wash it off in a long, hot shower with a loofah and then I walk into the bedroom. On the bed, written on a matchbook from California Pizza Kitchen, is her name and phone number and below that, “Had a wild time.” I go to the other room, swallow some Valium, open up my coffin and take a little nap.
I wake up later, restless, still kind of weak, grateful for the new customized coffin I had this guy out in Burbank build for me: FM radio, tape cassette, digital alarm clock, Perry Ellis sheets, phone, small color TV with built-in VCR and cable (MTV, HBO). Elvira is the hottest-looking woman on TV and she hosts this horror-movie show on Sunday nights which is my favorite show on TV and I would like to meet Elvira one day and maybe one day I will.
I get up, take my vitamins, work out with weights while playing Madonna on CD, take a shower, study my hair, blond and thick, and I’m thinking about calling Attila, my hair-dresser, and making an appointment for tomorrow night and then I call and leave a message. The maid has come and cleaned, which she is supposed to do, and I have specified to her that if she ever tries to open the coffin I will take her two little children and turn them into a human tostada with extra lettuce and salsa and eat them, muchas gracias. I get dressed: Levi’s, penny loafers, no socks, a white T-shirt from Maxfield’s, an Armani vest.
I drive over to the Sun ’n’ Fun twenty-four-hour tanning parlor on Woodman and get ten minutes of rays, then head over to Hollywood to maybe visit Dirk, who is mostly into pretty boys, hustlers down on Santa Monica, in bars, at gyms. He likes chain saws, which are okay if you have your place soundproofed like Dirk does. I pass an alley, four parking lots, a 7-Eleven, numerous police