Giant Gerald VII (Of Winners and Losers)

         There was a moment of conundrum for Gerald. Barbara was being decent to him. He found her personable, genuine. Maybe it was just a bit of kindness that she needed. The thought was quickly dismissed. G.G. spent his afternoons witnessing people kindly regret the day they ever addressed Barbara. Recollecting the sordid and tragic past she recounted to him earlier, it was clear to him that she was the same as she had always been. Like the sirens of ancient mythology, luring men with a sweet song only to devour them whole. No pun intended.

            There would be no turning back. Mercy was not an option.

            After they returned from the spa, Gerald flipped on the television and put on his nastiest porn DVD in hopes of regaining control of the situation. Barbara sat squarely on the floor, mesmerized in front of the TV set. He took her. Right there, the movie still playing. He couldn’t afford to give himself time to think.

            The things he did with her, to her, on her, are unimaginable for most people. Filling her vagina beyond capacity, he received a face full of her grateful, aromatic juices. Apparently, Barbara was a squirter. He then switched orifices. All the while choking her, slapping her in the face, breasts, and ass. Her shrieks were ear-piercing, and whether they were shouted in pleasure or pain was not in any way discernable to the human ear. There was however, no call for putting a stop to things.

            He continued on, spitting on her and calling her names. This was no longer part of the plan. It was all of the hate G.G. had for this contemptible woman concentrated into four hours of fluid exchange. A hate fuck.

            “Dirty slut!!” he bawled out. “That’s what you need. Gonna fuck some sense into you!” Finally, feeling that he had done enough, or possibly that he could do no more, Gerald gave her the piece de resistance. Coup de grace.

            Only seconds before finishing, he pounded viciously away at her backside, the smell of shit and raw body stench filling the air and permeating to the outside area. He removed his penis from her rancid and unholy orifice and beat her senselessly in the face with it. In the chaos of it all, Barbara’s left eye had been hit as though with a closed fist. G.G. was spent. The sex had been arduous and the sun was about to peek its weary, judgmental head over the clouds which rested obliviously along the horizon like rows of neatly plotted resting sheep.

            “You need to go home,” he said, falling limp the way a tree might be felled in the forest. His floor-bound plop shook the building so that the windows rattled.

            “You alright to drive?” he became absent of the fact, in his inebriated state, that he had driven them to his place.

            “I’ll get a cab,” she said agreeably.

            “Good.”

            The affair that transpired between Giant G. and Barbara D. could be more accurately characterized as an excursion. Gerald drank himself half to death that night. Besides the severe dehydration typically associated with massive alcohol consumption, the prolonged act of sex drained anything that may have been left in his body in the way of moisture via sweat, spit, and semen, Rehydration would take 72 excruciating hours.

Consequently, he had to take some sick days from work. The recuperation process would be fraught with nightmares that forced him to continually relive what he came to feel had been his sin against nature. The stench of the supposed beast clung like death to the walls and rug of the apartment for one week; every day of which, G.G. would be slapped in the face with the unforgiving reminder whenever returning from outside. Despite his fondness for preparing meals at home, he ate all his meals out that week.

            Upon returning to work that third day of resurrection, Gerald received mixed attention. He could not quite place it and didn’t much care to ask. His intention was to wait out the week and only then point to the apparent fact that Barbara was no longer a regular guest at the bar.

            Happy hour ended that afternoon and there was no sign of her. Then came the dinner rush, and in she came. Stumbled actually, Barbara. She was sore, for the first time ever, having had the sense fucked into her, as G.G. put it. It was then that Gerald was filled in. During his absence, she had been limping in everyday, asking for him by name. She was also getting into the habit of coming in for dinner instead of happy hour; all the time wearing sunglasses.

            Donning a powder-blue dress that caused her to resemble a big baby, she limped her way up to Gerald and lifted her sunglasses to reveal a black eye. The rest of her face looked as though she had gotten in a fight with Mary Kay and lost. A pungent perfume crowned the image and announced her presence in place of her former signature musk that was so reminiscent of sour milk and sardines. 

            “I’m not wearing any underwear,” she said and smiled. Gerald was beside himself. His plan had backfired in the worst possible way. “What are you doing later?”

            He did not answer, but was in utter shock. Barbara, however incognizant of the fact, talked up a storm with the people seated adjacent to her. She discussed sports and celebrity gossip and was absolutely sweet to everybody for the rest of the evening. She ordered a steak that she complemented with a lovely French table wine, and even tipped above the minimum rate. This change in demeanor on Barbara’s part would continue indefinitely.

            Gerald on the other hand would not ever be regarded quite the same. The girls at the bar were all too familiar with the name brand stumble that was worn with pride by the former client from hell. Part laughing stock and part local hero, his reasoning was a cause for debate. Nonetheless, he did not dare confirm the deed. Not ever. To him, the intention of malice was plenty shameful without subsequently confessing to his masochism in the matter.

So was he cast into a personal hell. Henceforth he would be subject to little come-ons and unwelcomed flirtations. The beast was tamed, and was to become the sole burden of Giant Gerald Letrowski.

Giant Gerald VI (BallsDeep)

Barbara kept quiet for the remainder of the evening and did not dismiss herself at the end of happy hour the way that was routine. She stuck around until closing, pondering herself and the path which had led her to her current state of stagnancy. When the bar closed, she waited outside for Gerald, who felt that he had started something that absolutely needed to be finished. Barbara, as far as he was concerned, would not return the following day or any other day for that matter.

He thought about his pornography films, and all the things he wished he could do but was afraid to inflict upon a woman. It was a golden opportunity for him to kill two birds with one stone. Gerald would have his utopian work environment. Slipping the closing cocktail waitress a twenty dollar bill, he asked if she could please close the bar for him, that he had a pressing matter to attend to. When asked, he only answered, “I’m going to take one for the team.” In all actuality, he was going to give one for the team. Not wanting anyone to know his ultimate sacrifice, he offered no explanation beyond the vague cliché. He only gave a smile and a peace sign.

He went outside to meet Barbara who was barely visible beyond the thick shrubbery of a parking lot island that was just out from the glass front doors. He found her unusually approachable, yet solemn. He had made his way into her brain. She was sitting on the curb of the island with her head down, in a state of deep reflection.

“What’s your story?” he asked, earnestly. To get her talking was the only goal for the moment.

“Why?” She looked up. “Do you have a few hours?”

She was vulnerable and eager to express herself.

“I do if you wanna come have a drink at my place.” She did not answer but simply stood up and followed Gerald to his car. He opened the door for her. She was grateful.

G.G.’s plan was simple. He couldn’t be rude to her at work and he knew she relied on that fact. She knew that she could come into any customer service environment: a restaurant, a bar, a coffee shop, and she could be as awful as she wanted to be to everyone who worked there and they would just have to take it. Because they were on the clock. The way she had to take it when she worked behind the butcher’s counter. But Gerald could fight fire with fire. He could spend this time with her right now, off the clock, and show her some side of him she wouldn’t ever want to see again. He could make her feel so awkward and so ashamed, she couldn’t ever look Gerald in the eyes again.

So he drank. He took her up to his apartment and Barbara spouted off the tragic minutiae of her sordid past. And Gerald drank. Stripping away his inhibitions with vodka, lime, and triple sec, he prepared. What would it take?

“Oh Gawd,” he thought. He knew exactly what it would take.

The women with whom he had been sexually intimate thus far were pretty little things with life in their eyes and a gentle, effeminate aroma about their skin. Here was a smelly pulp of a woman. To put it kindly.

In light of her personal odor, he proposed they go visit the Jacuzzi located on the apartment grounds. It was late enough for security guards to have ceased patrolling the area so long as the two kept quiet and avoided resident noise complaints. With desolate privacy as their shelter, they did so in complete nudity. They brought their drinks along, which further enabled him to look straight at her tousled corpse with some ease.

Before they disrobed, he asked her one question.

“Do you want to know what the ‘G’ stands for?”

He dropped his pants.

“God! Oh… God!”

“Shh,” he cautioned her. “No. It’s Gerald.” To his dismay,  she exhibited no signs of social discomfort beyond her initial state of shock.

They chatted a bit more while they became acclimated to the heat of the steaming water. Gerald did his best to remain nonchalant and keep the conversation moving ahead.

“So, DeMolde,” he said. “What is that, French?”

“No. It’s fake.”

Barbara’s driver’s license and all of her credit cards said DeMolde on them.

“It’s an alias. You know, like gangsters have.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The state and the banks don’t care what you wanna call yourself. All they care about is your social security number.”

Some years ago, Barbara had thought it would help her paternity suit against the DeMolde men to have already adopted the last name. This, she did not care to explain. It was one of the reasons why the case wasn’t taken seriously.

After the fact, she hoped the name might bring some redemption to her downward spiral which precipitated immediately following. Just like the redemption that Donald Lutz had brought into her life. The difference being that she was alone this time. There would be no prince to whisk her away on a white horse.

“But why would you…”

“There’s nothing to understand, okay. It’s just a souvenir, and it’s just Barbara.”

Gerald hid the fact that he expected her to be embarrassed about her body. He was certainly embarrassed for her, now conjuring images of the Kool-Aid man and Humpty Dumpty’s illegitimate daughter. His previous sex partners, attractive as they were, had been ashamed of any little imperfection on their body, be it mole or an appendectomy scar.

The entire time, Barbara’s gaze would not stray from his penis. The rest of his body was also well-maintained. Eventually they sat comfortably inside the Jacuzzi, at which point he asked her another question.

“How long can you hold your breath?”

“Time me.”

She smiled and dove hungrily for his loins. Gerald stabbed her in the back of the throat, thinking that it was all he had left to do to send Barbara stomping off in anger, or at least shame. Two minutes later, she came up.

“How long was that?”

Catching her breath, she stared into his face expectantly. His expression was indescribable. He was both sexually satisfied and mentally perturbed. It was a can of worms he opened if it wasn’t Pandora’s Box.

Either way, banishing Barbara would not be the cut-and-dry task he had originally anticipated.

“I don’t know,” he said, jokingly. “I lost count after the first half hour.”

Never in Gerald’s brief but rampant sexual history had a woman been able to fit him entirely into any orifice. He’d stopped short of ejaculating inside her esophagus only because he was saving that for something special.

“That was like, a minute.” She giggled childishly.

“It was more than a minute,” he said, still wide-eyed in disbelief. “I’m sure of that.”

Round one was nearly a loss for G.G. Reevaluating his strategy, he whisked Barbara back up to his apartment. Slaying the beast would take all he had.

There would be no rest, however, until she could no longer bear to look at him.

Giant Gerald V (Kill Her with Kindness)

            These thoughts raced through Gerald’s head while he continued hastily cleaning the cocktail glasses.

'What if I was a faggot?' he thought to himself. 'I would've been even more offended!'

Turning away from the moment and the rack of dirty glasses, he looked Barbara up and down in appraisal. There must be something, one thing, worth complimenting about her.

She wore orthopedic shoes that resembled hospital issue slippers. That meant her feet were swollen and rough as hammers. Nothing worth mentioning there.

Her face was pale and greasy looking from overuse of anti-aging cream. No compliment there either.

Her breasts hung like flat tires atop a junk heap.

She was a human train wreck from head to toe. Even her insults were witless and ignorant at best.

Then he found the one thing that time could not steal from Barbara.

“I never understood how eyes that lovely could harbor a frown underneath everywhere they go.”

Now it was Barbara who was dumbstruck. She looked up at him with the confusion of a small child just discovering its reflection in a mirror. Gerald, having successfully gotten her attention, just said, “Only the girls call me G.G. The guys call me by my name.”

She didn't know his name and he knew this.

“What did you say to me?” she muttered after a lengthy pause.

“Your eyes,” he said. Then he echoed a line she heard ages before, from a young man with a poet’s heart whom, until that moment, she had simply regarded as another notch on her proverbial garter belt.

“They’re blue like the sky after a rainstorm.”

The patrons at the bar overheard the exchange and backed up a little, like they were about to witness a fight.

“Resembling,” he continued. “tiny eclipses of the sun.”

Gerald kept quiet after that and went on about his business, deciding to quit while he was ahead.

Barbara was clearly taken off her guard. She finished off the glass of cheap red wine that sat directly in front of her as though it were a shot of whiskey, grimacing afterward in reaction to the rush of tannins. A tear ran from her eye and she hid it, adjusting the makeup she wasn't wearing.

She had not heard a genuinely kind word in ages.

“I’m going to the restroom.”

Her voice sounded crippled.

“Could you please pour me a glass from the reserve bottle for when I come back?” In the history of her patronage at that bar, Barbara had not ever said ‘please’ to anybody.

She entered the ladies’ room, waited patiently for a woman in there to finish  her business and leave, then sobbed openly in front of the mirror. She washed her face profusely, anticipating that someone might enter at any moment and catch her in the middle of a nervous collapse. When she finished, Barbara went into a stall briefly to masturbate. She truly could not remember the last time she'd been touched. This emotional disaster a human being exploded within contact of herself and felt beautiful all over again for ten seconds. Then she remembered that, even as a curvaceous man-eater, she was ugly then too – that she had always been ugly.

Barbara washed off her lipstick and face cream, deeming them, and herself, ridiculous. She collected herself and went back to the bar. Gerald sensed progress on his part and did his best to continue on the same note. He was not at all certain where this was going, but he didn't intend on backing down. This was all out war.

“Enjoying the finer thing, aye, Ms. Barbara?” he said, referring to her selection of wine. For Barbara, ever since her fall from supposed grace, it had always been the cheap stuff. From well liquor to black coffee to house wine. Everything was for effect – not for flavor.

“Might as well taste it.”

She smiled, her voice was still weak, and her mind still in shock from her miniature episode in the bathroom.

“Might as well enjoy it,” Gerald concurred.

Giant Gerald IV (The Plot Thins)

            Barbara would not regain her flawless figure once the baby was born. She attempted to file paternity suits against the DeMolde men, but the blood tests said that it was anybody’s guess who the father really was. The case was laughed out of court. She knew darn well who the father was and the baby was relinquished to him within a year of having been born. Barbara despised her own mother and never really wanted to be one.

            Dora was her name and she was well taken care of. Her natural father loved her, took great care of her and put her through Christian school, where she would learn that people like Barbara, Harvey, and Nigel did not exist in the world thanks to the fulfilled prophecy of a flood that took place so many thousands of years ago.

            The butcher’s counter at a local grocery store was Barbara’s final destination. She never had to deal with people before, the way she did at the market. Answering ‘thank you’ with ‘thank you’ and taking orders from people who were younger and dimmer than even herself. Quickly she grew bitter and would handle the meat grinder zealously pretending all who passed by were screaming for their pointless little lives, being processed into burger patties or sausage.

            Ambling drearily into Gerald’s bar at happy hour, she would size up all the patrons in disgust. They would have opened the door for her – when she was young. They would have bought her drinks – when she was beautiful. Men and women alike would have given double takes, glancing at reflections in mirrors and glass doorways in order to catch an indirect glimpse at the curves of her body, much like looking into the sun.

            Her shape was now that of a teapot with breasts resting lazily upon it. Lipstick was worn heavily to overcompensate for the shapelessness of the rest of her body. Almost as though her lips if painted emphatically enough could draw all focus away from her now disheveled carcass.

            She barked at people instead of talking to them. “Hey,” she would call, rather than learning their names. Showering and brushing of the teeth were done strictly on an ‘as needed’ basis, which caused Barbara to stink of rotten milk with a hint of sardines. As a result, a social perimeter equivalent to three feet in every direction kept her further isolated. Especially at the bar, those with sufficient experience did not care for her to waft over in their general direction.

            Terror overcame the staff and clientele alike when her car cruised into the parking lot.

            They would call her, “Oh shit.”

            They would call he, “There goes the neighborhood.”

            “Moldy Barbara” was a popular favorite.

            The only shred of memorabilia stolen from her glory days would serve to personify Barbara’s living state of decomposition. A shred she stole for reasons unknown even to her and clutched with a rigor mortis grip. Other pseudonyms were not as forgiving.

            Of all people, Gerald could not once get her to crack a smile. The man with the shiny attitude and heart as pure as diamond was prone to receive sideline comments, such as, “You really like yourself, don’t you?” and, “Do you smile because you’re stupid or because they pay you?”

            “Both, I suppose.”

            There was little else to answer, lest he risk his cozy job. Gerald loved his boss. He loved his bar guests, and his coworkers even more so. It was for these reasons that it troubled Gerald all the more to be powerless, absolutely powerless to the shadow cast on his all-but-utopian work environment for three hours a day on weekdays.

            Happy hour.

            Now with his thriving sex life, Gerald was more baffled than ever as to how people could find it within themselves to be ugly to one another.

            They called him G.G. again. The girls did anyhow, and he liked it.

            “It’s cause you’re a faggot,” Barbara called out. Gerald had had enough from Barbara.

            “I think I’m allowed to ask you to leave for saying something like that, sweetie.” Gerry only said ‘sweetie’ when he was upset. It was a nice way of saying bitch, and it was reserved for only the most extreme circumstances, of which there were few in his uncomplicated life.

            “It’s why you smile so much. I heard the girls calling you Gigi. That’s a girl’s name, isn’t it?”

            “It’s not G-I-G-I. They’re initials.”

            “Huh?”

            “Initials, they stand for something else.”

            “What’s it mean?” she asked, uninterested.

            “It doesn’t matter. I’m just a stupid faggot.”

            Gerald said this with as big and sarcastic a smile as he ever wore. He busied himself by cleaning some dirty cocktail glasses so as to not continue feeding the flames of anger now crackling in the pit of his stomach.

            Now it became crystal clear. Gerald was going to banish the shrew. Forever. Could he kill her with kindness? The feat had been attempted before, at their first acquaintance, against fair warning from the resident staff.

It wasn’t what she said, but how she said it.

“Just pour the drinks, wise guy. Everybody know I don’t tip good.”

The words hissed out of her mouth with as much disgust and contempt as one human being can have for another. And it was true. For all the stress and stepping on eggshells, Barbara typically left a dollar. Sometimes two, counting any excess change she didn’t care to keep in her purse.

G.G. had been dumbstruck by her venomous energy and generally took big steps to avoid her ever since. This included allowing her to pour her own wine and initiating new employees by having them tend to her in his stead. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.

Being utterly kind to Barbara would be a game. He was going to go all in. Balls deep.

The Scarcely Told Legend of Giant Gerald (A Tall Tale)

 Giant Gerald was born Gerald Robert Letrowski to the Flying Letrowskis out of Hoboken, New Jersey. While they did work for a circus at one point, cultivating a husband and wife trapeze duo was the mere aspiration of a couple who made their living on the side show of an Atlantic Coast traveling carnival. They were Jenna, the bearded lady, and Jerome, the half-man, half-horse. While Jerome’s penis did not take up half of his body, it was rumored to have been transplanted from a Kentucky derby stud. Jenna, on the other hand, was highly attractive, and did little more for her part of the show than sit idly next to her husband while donning a cosmetic beard fashioned from dyed sheep’s wool. Where they wound up is where our story takes place.

            Being born at the healthy weight of nine pounds and three ounces was not the reason behind Gerald’s nickname. Nor did he grow to be very large in stature. Giant Gerald did not, in fact, know about his ridiculously large penis until he had reached his mid-twenties, when the rumor caught up with him. However let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

            The name actually spawned from an incident during a home-coming party at the start of Gerald’s junior year in high school. Late that night, when many of the guess had departed, young Gerry found himself stumbling drunk into a vacant bedroom and ready to be deflowered by a lovely, young, popular cheerleader by the name of Melinka. Within a few clumsy minutes they were disrobed and ready to party. Melinka let out a mighty shriek and began to bleed, allowing her to confirm the lie she had told earlier – saying that she was a virgin.

            She spoon-fed this story to every new romantic encounter, and nothing could have been further from the truth. As a matter of fact, Gerald was the second gentleman to penetrate her that evening. He went on, oblivious and somewhat traumatized, thinking that sex was not really something for women to enjoy.

            The story spread throughout poor Gerry’s high school with a sonic boom, without every reaching his ears, in the way etiquette dictates that nobody is to tell a morbidly obese woman that she has a weight problem, even if that woman keeps a spandex-based wardrobe. Young Gerald thought thought it normal to struggle daily whit the cumbersome chore of hiding his bulge. After all, does not every man keep his penis folded beneath his ass if not propped to one side over his pelvis?

            His friends called him G.G. for short without ever explaining why. Nor did he inquire. He took the nickname as a satire regarding his relatively small stature, though he was not particularly tiny in comparison with the rest of the students in his graduating class. At 5’ 9” and 144 lbs., he was neither here nor there. All the while, his friends refused to let him in on the joke, mainly for the sake of their own insecurities.

            What a splendid homage, he thought, to be tagged with such a wonderfully satirical nickname. This attitude he kept of noticing only the shiny side of life did him well all through high school and up to adulthood. Bright-eyed, young Gerry had no formal skills, experience, or higher education to speak of. Only a hearty smile, and a willingness to take on the world with it.

            This, coupled with other preceding events, landed him a comfortable job as a bartender when he turned twenty-five. Gerald made more money behind that bar than many of his former fellow students who went on to college and subsequent professional careers. His nights were high-paced and his regulars were absolutely head-over heels in love with his dopey, happy-go-lucky attitude. They called him Woody sometimes in reference to the barkeep on an old 1980’s hit sitcom series. Having never achieved success in concealing his bulge, the surrounding staff had a good chuckle at this.  It embarrassed him, actually, his bulge, and he cared not to speak about it.

            At night’s end, he was permitted by management to pour a few cocktails for the closing staff. He did this liberally but with a sense of caution. Sometimes he would simply bring in a bottle of his own to avoid confusion altogether with revenue coming in from clientele. Nobody would have ever accused Gerald of stealing and that was one reason why.

            So beloved was our young bartending protagonist, and he would have been popular regardless of the following incident. Nonetheless, it did not hurt him any.

            One night, while chatting away with the closing staff, Gerald was asked out rightly.

            “Why do you think you need to stuff your pants?”

            The closing staff on this night consisted of three young and slender cocktail waitresses. Most of the staff were female on the front side of the establishment. The cooks in the back of the house, as is the norm, were mostly male and of Hispanic origin. The doors were closed, and they, along with any remaining clientele, had long since gone home. The waitresses, nowadays called servers, were Daisy, Fay, and Sue. They all sat, anxiously, and awaited a response.

            He took this at first as though someone had pointed out an obvious handicap: with abashment, and to a lesser extent, offense. Utterly speechless, his face began to warm up, particularly at the ears and forehead, causing them to turn a cherry shade of red. He wished he could have died right then and there.

            “I just…” Gerald started, after an intensely long pause. Sue was the girl bold and tipsy enough to ask. She was relatively new on the staff. Daisy and Fay dared not to break the silence and risk taking momentum out of the situation. It had been a question on all their minds ever since the day they met him and the only discernible fault Gerry had.

            “Wasn’t that something guys did in the seventies?” Sue continued, as though they were discussing hair styles. Her valley girl, bubble gum way of talking was beginning to sound like fingernails scratching on chalkboard to him.

            “You’d probably get more girls if you didn’t try to go all porn star all the time, you know?”

          Sue was a nice enough girl. Only honest to a flaw. She didn't know any better. Nobody did. Gerald was chaste and had been ever since his episode in high school. As a result, he had become a compulsive masturbator and housed a veritable library of pornography in his apartment. Some of the men in the films had equipment comparable to his. Lesser sizes he attributed to the porn industry’s commitment to boosting the male ego. Another reinforcement on the idea that sex was not for women to enjoy.

            “It’s tough,” he went on. “I don’t know what else to do with it.”

            The women glanced at one another in perplexity.

            “Do me a favor,” said Daisy. “Open your pants.”

            Gerald, modest as he was, refused at first. Two shots of Irish whiskey and one Irish car bomb later, he unleashed what later became known as ‘the fury’. With this unveiling and the consequent reaction came a sudden pondering in retrospect to his old nickname. The order of events replayed over and over in his head, and caused him to feel extremely foolish.

            This feeling of being left out of his own cosmic joke was short-lived, however. Throughout the ensuing weeks, one by one, the female servers would report for a shift with a bit of a limp in their step. Another sonic boom radiated from the now legendary grin of Mr. Giant Gerald Letrowski. Incidentally, he began purchasing his trousers two sizes larger, and it made a world of difference for his general appearance.

Giant Gerald II (Enter Barbara DeMolde)

 The bar was popular enough to begin with and so was Gerald. Now, whenever good old happy-go-lucky Gerald was tending, getting a drink could turn into something of a competition. Smiling women of all shapes, ages, and sizes would step on each others toes to get within breathing distance of the old favorite who had become a new novelty. All except one bitter, sour puss.

         Barbara DeMolde was a beaming vision of feminine flawlessness in her prime, which at the time of Gerald the bartender, was going on ten years passed. The blond-haired, french-tip manicured, epitome of lust had long since gained forty some odd pounds and grown completely loathsome to the world around her. A classic drunk, she was limited to three cocktails by the management of all the bars she frequented. This only added to the fits and temper tantrums she was known to throw. Ten years after anybody would have given a shit, she was still programmed on getting her way. Barbara never got her way anymore. She was angry, haggard, and kept bad hygiene to boot.

         Where to begin with Barbara. First of all, her name was not DeMolde. It was Bates. DeMolde was the name she took later on in life from a man whom she did not marry. Until then, she was known as Barbie to the people in her world. The abbreviated version of her name was bestowed by her first boyfriend and the first to ever fall in love with her. If asked, she would have confessed her love for him as well. In truth, she did not know what that was, love. In her life, there would be many more. Though none of them would endure quite as long or quite as much as he did.

         Donald Lutz was a senior at Barbie's high school when she was a sophomore and his seniority and high reputation earned her a certain prestige to which she became accustomed all too fast. Regarded as a slut for all the wrong reasons, namely her flashy good looks, Donald's presence banished those demons from her life before they could manifest themselves negatively. Back then she was nothing more than an early bloomer with a flair for style.

         He came from money and lavished her with gifts, both practical and exotic. Dresses, perms, manicures; her painted fingernail became a magic wand for favors, fabric, and destinations. Her classmates despised her all the more, but it was a respectful hatred. The type of contempt held by the poor for the world of aristocracy, save for a small group of insecure girls who praised her like a pagan deity. Barbie would have had to care more to care less about the lot of them. As long as she got her way, everything was roses.

        When Donald went away to college the following year, Barbie followed. The notion was met with no argument from her parents. They were far too busy squabbling over extramarital affairs and economic turbulence to fulfill anything that resembled parenting duties. Marrying off their pretty, young tax deduction to a high bidder was the very best hope they could have for her future. She showed limited promise as a student.

         But the fairytale would not continue. College proved to be very demanding. Donald and Barbie shared their living situation with a multitude of roommates. Being a couple, the affordability of dorm room living was not an option. Nor could Barbie find work at the still young age of sixteen. Donald was working to pay rent for two and the demand on his time left him unable to give her the attention she was used to. Also unaccustomed was she to the bombardment of flattery and social invitations that would be extended to a young, jaunty, and immature beauty with nothing but spare time on her hands. She developed quickly as an attention whore and as a nymphomaniac.

        At the end of one semester, Barbie had had sex with all three of Donald's roommates, participated in two fraternity orgies, and was well known by the bi-curious population of the nearby sororities. Popularity became a drug for her and she was hailed as a sex queen among those in the know. Donald, faithful as ever, came home one day came home one day with a doctor's prescription for antibiotics. Donald had chlamydia. That was the end of Barbie Bates' free ride.

         Vegas was her next stop and stripping was her first gig. At age seventeen, she had little trouble attaining false identification. Barbie made more money before she turned 25 then poor Donald could have ever hoped to facilitate. In addition there were boyfriends, for lack of a better term. They were handsome, charming, exciting, and each of them had a function: one for the rent, one for the bills, another for clothes... the list goes on.

         She was a hard worker, of course, and she loved what she did. Ever the center of attention, her teenage dreams we being fulfilled and lived out to their maximum potential. Dreams of having the spotlight shone on her night after night, performing for drooling, gasping fans despite all lack of talent and ingenuity. People worked for years aspiring to frequent the clubs where Barbie danced. They worked tirelessly to create a lifestyle that would permit habitual time in the "champagne room" with, and occasional taking home of the goddess who treaded in stiletto-healed pedestals. They all scrimped and saved for a portion of what had been freely doled out on her plate like so much government cheese.

         When she turned twenty-seven, Barbie Bates made a business minded decision to marry for money. Her devastating good looks would not last forever. Decidedly, she began laying down the groundwork for the next twenty or so years of her life. It was literally the smartest idea she ever had. The target was Harvey Demolde.

         Good old Harvey was a middle-aged man with a stoutness to him. Not unattractive, he was a regular patron of Barbara's and would bring flowers to her at work, usually accompanied by a greeting card dedication with a small, albeit extravagant gift enclosed; a piece of jewelry here, a high-stakes casino chip there...  One night, the greeting card held a pair of keys inside. One was to a condominium in Manhattan Beach and the other belonged to a brand new European sports car that was housed within the garage of the condo.

         Close but no cigar, she thought. Barbie was well used to being showered with ridiculously expensive and unusual gifts. Once, a man bought her a koala. It was turned over to the zoo after some deliberation over how she might be able to profit from it.

         A new address and expensive mode of transportation did not an engagement ring make. I was time to speed things up. Barbie stopped altogether taking her birth control pills, moved into her miniature castle in Manhattan Beach, and with a warriors temperament, fucked old Harvey's brains out. Her birth control pill, she replaced with a daily regimented pregnancy test. She hadn't the patience to wait for her period to be late. Discontinuation of the pill would throw her monthly cycle off anyhow.

         Not the brightest star in the sky, Barbara neglected ever to ask Harvey about his marital status. Harvey DeMolde was money married to money. He and his wife both kept affairs in order to stay sane, they hated each other so. Theirs was a marriage merger. The end of the world and all of humanity would have to pass before they would ever dream of breaking their business deal. Barbie found all of that our the hard way. One morning, the pregnancy test came up pink. That was the beginning of the end for Barbie the illustrious sex goddess, and the beginning of Barbara that stupid, crazy bitch from hell.

     

Giant Gerald Part III (What Happened to Barbie)

         The news of Barbara's pregnancy was broken to old Harvey over champagne and strawberries one night while the two shared a leisurely bath. His reaction was less than copacetic.

         He spoke through his teeth wearing a residual smile that was left over from the jovial atmosphere of 10 seconds earlier. The smile was all but faded in the surrealism of disbelief.

         "It's true, honey. I'm pregnant," she said ecstatically. "Isn't it great?"
   
         "What happened to your pill? Why are you drinking?"

         "Harvey. You're not taking this the way I-"

         "You dumb bitch!" He jumped naked from the bathtub, nearly foaming at the mouth. "You crazy fucking--"

         Choked by his own rage, he could not finish the sentence.

         He did not say another word.



         Powerful as he was in so many respects, at that moment Harvey felt about 3 inches tall. He was beside himself with panic. Throwing on a bathrobe, he stormed out of the condo and drove home to his estate in the Hollywood Hills.

         Barbie had a credit card account, a gas card, and several department store lines of credit under Harvey DeMolde's name. They were all instantly terminated. The sports car required $30,000 a year in maintenance costs. Virtually brand new and in mint condition, it was sold to the junk yard for the dumbfounding price of $25,000. It was the only way she could rid herself of the car in a timely fashion. Power and gas to the condominium were shut off as quickly as the credit card. She squatted there the next two months until a real estate agent urged her to vacate the building under penalty of law.

         During those two months, Barbie still not showing in her pregnancy, found it somehow to become acquainted with Harvey's son, Nigel DeMolde III. He was a handsome, young fraternity boy attending UCLA at the time. Nigel was nobody's fool. He watched his father carefully as a general rule of emulating success. In doing so, he had become acutely aware of the goings on between his father the corporate heavy weight and Barbara the would-be Cinderella, despite all testimony to the contrary. He was also very keen on the manner in which to handle a woman of Barbie's special breed.

         Again and to punctuate a tired point, Barbie never finished her high school education and was, for that and other reasons, lacking in little minutiae of common knowledge. Nigel refused to ever engage in anything but anal and oral intercourse with her. He said he wouldn't make love to her until their wedding night, which he vowed, would take place directly following his graduation from college. After only one month of dating and two weeks before she was ordered to leave the condo, Barbara once again broke the news of her pregnancy and told Nigel he was going to be a father. The frat boy never laughed so hard.

         "A woman knows these things," she struggled to sound genuine. Nigel, still caught in a fit of laughter, had to collect himself in order to speak.

         "You don't mess around, do you?" Barbie was confused. She was certain she had the problem solved. Nigel fought through tears of raucous bemusement and said, "Prove it!" as he slammed the door behind him. She couldn't understand what had gone wrong. She thought of herself as a cunning individual and truly believed herself to be the first woman ever to think of trapping a rich man into marriage with a pregnancy.

The Cost (part 2)

Not far inland from the sad serendipity of onlookers, some held hands, embraced, prayed, but not many. Most rioted. Looted. They never heard the phrase, "You can't take it with you." They were all dead to begin with. They were part of the problem.

Farther inland, the roads, all the roads, were jammed with those who fled. Where they would flea to? They knew not. Escape to them was an impulse. Jumping ship in premature surrender to the seas however unforgiving. They would die as they lived; preoccupied and in denial of what was to pass.

Before long, the air would thicken like fog and become charged with electrical current. St Elmo's fire. Enough to start a car. The wind and sky were to descend at sea level and the laws which previously governed the clouds would wreak havoc on all terrestrial life below 3,000 feet above the original shoreline. When all is said and done, the ocean would find its peace at that height for a few short centuries. The whole of which then becoming private bathing quarters for them two who I saw fit to spare.

There they would live unbothered by the litany of turmoil and scrutiny the human world has to offer those in pursuit of fulfilment from this thing, human condition we have lbeled as 'life'. On a high desert mountain top they will exist, oblivious to the chain of events that ran course below.

The Cost (part 1)

The clouds were ominous in the most literal sense as they rolled in a solid line from ocean to shoreline. The water had become air, and the air became water. Along the cost, the masses waited. They would all be dead in a matter of minutes. They knew this without the aid of public advisories, or sensationalist rhetoric. The Mother Earth spake for itself. The floating womb circling her celestial patriarch source of light and the other half of life.

Mother Earth spoke with wind and water, enunciating through seismic vibration as she cleared her volcanic throat and resonated throughout the sky. She said not to worry. That she would be fine. Finally, that she could not say the same for us. These were not the time of the Nephilim. This was not the time of legends and great men. Nor was it the end. It was the cost.