Back Home
by Giovanni Arduino

Okay. Nice landing. No Airplane movie crap here. Should call it home but don't have the guts. Northern-fuckin'-Italy. Rain everywhere, late autumn a blessing for the doomed. A piss-yellow bus takes me from here to there. A quick glance at my passport and everything's kosher. Yeah, fella, just kosher, dream on...

Screw the dream. It's a certified nightmare. Been in NY since 1979, left Italy with a bad case of terminal boredom and razor-sharp angst. I found a decent job, a not too bad apartment in Queens, whatever. Doctoring screenplays for crappy b-stuff: kung-fu flicks, horror flicks, skin flicks, what you got. You want your scream queen to utter some perfect valley girl wisdom amidst all the bimbo banter? I'm your man. Or I was.

A couple of days ago I decided for a trip to the hospital. Didn't feel too well: raspy voice, dull ache in the pit of my stomach, lots of sweaty and sleepsless nights. A quick jab in the arm. A smiling nurse taking some raspberry-colored
samples. Routine check-up, she explained. Routine, my ass. I found my humble self blessed with the plague of the
century. I didn't slam the needle, ever. Maybe I fucked around a bit too much in Virus City. Hooray for me. I left NY the following day and took a plane for Turin, Italy. My birthplace.

I find a cheap hotel near Porta Palazzo. Niggers everywhere. Things've changed a bit from my wee-begone days. Father killed by bladder cancer, mother with a valium monkey this big on her shoulder. Never phoned her, not
in all these years. Why bother?

The bathroom faucet is leaking brown, brackish water. Mouth fills with the sharp tang of metal and rust. I spit it out, snatch my leather jacked and am ready to go out.

Night is weeping grey tears of rain. I remember the place from a distant time. Some things never change. A peroxided blonde junkie hands me some rumpled newspapers, I toss him a roll of money. Italian liras, so... classy.

Strolling down corso Francia, trees gnarly and riddled with oak fungus. A quick chat with a black leotard-clad hooker and a price is set. Nice 'n sweet. The junkie's gift shifts in my pocket.

I fuck her in the ass. No condom. No shit.
"You like taking chances", she wheezes in passable English. She comes from Albany. I remember Albany, USA, and smother a laugh.
"So do you." I answer. Three more strokes and I'm finished. She wipes the cum off her bottom with a pristine white handkerchief. A touch of class.
"Well, would you like me to write it on the mirror?", she asks, chasing rivulets of slimy sperm down her legs.
I flash her a grin.
"Welcome to the world of AIDS", she grins back. Beautiful teeth. Beautiful tongue. A tongue to suck 'n chew 'n eat like a raw oyster.
"Should have believed the urban legends", I answer.
She parts her brownish hair in the middle. A purple bruise catches the dim brilliance of the light bulb. "This ain't no urban legend."
"Oh", I mouth.
Well.
I guess that makes us two of a kind.

Her name is Odette. Not her real name, but I don't give a fuck about names. We sleep the night away. We ain't Nicholas Cage and Elizabeth Shue in Las Vegas, this is no artsy-fartsy movie with a bogus jazz soundtrack.
This is what you want, this is what you get.

Noon, I think. Odette is nowhere to be seen. I hear a churning sound from the bathroom. She's probably washing her hair. I unwrap the newspapers the junkie gave me. The muzzle of the compact revolver: like Mickey Mouse with a hard-on. Serial numbers sandpapered off. A box of shells. Odette is singing some crappy tune. It's raining, again and again. Life's so good.

"I like this place." Odette's smoking a big, fat joint, the back of her head caressing my cock. I'm naked, gazing at the ceiling. Water stains as big as dinosaurs. As dark as dried blood.

Odette's sleeping. I place the loaded gun in my mouth. I'm where it all began. Her face rests right on my glans. I'm where it's all gonna end. I feel the hollow of the barrel with the tip of my tongue. My index finger tightening and then releasing. Releasing it all.

Odette awakens with a ringing in her hears and soggy curls. "Still wet" she mumbles, falling asleep again.

© Giovanni Arduino

Giovanni Arduino is a published Italian noir/ya/horror author. Visit his web site at: www.giovanniarduino.com