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La Envidia Mata RP
Topic Started: Apr 24 2010, 10:02 PM (74 Views)
The Corporation
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The flame of a slender wax candle flickers in the darkness, illuminating La Envidia Mata's cold eyes. A breeze of cool air rushes through the room, blowing La Envidia Mata's hair into the air and raising the apathetic hairs on the back of his neck.

“Who's there?”

“I saw you got burnt.” The voice replies.

La Envidia Mata stands, shuffles to the lightswitch, and floods the room with light. A wrapping of white gauze surrounds La Envidia Mata's forehead. There, standing across from him, taking a puff of a cigar, is David Mata.

“What a pity,” David says.

La Envidia Mata digs his hand deep into his coat pocket and pulls out a revolver. He points it at David Mata.

“I'm going to kill you.”

“No... No your not,” David says. “And I'll tell you why.”

“Where the hell were you when Chris Bond was beating me down at Showdown?”

“Me? Why, I have Nothing, remember?”

La Envidia Mata cocks the revolver, and grits his teeth together.

“I think you're ready.”

“Ready for what?” La Envidia Mata asks.

“The truth.”

La Envidia Mata's face turns wildly sad, and he turns the gun and points it to his temple.

“Now, now,” says David, “That won't be necessary.”

David takes a seat at the couch.

“It took a little bit of time, and I'll grant you this, quite a long time. But now you are ready to find out who you really are.”

“I know who I am. I am Nothing.”

“No, I am Nothing,” David says. “You are someone.”

La Envidia Mata rushes in and grabs David Mata by the throat.

“You bastard!”

“Your mother and father...” David says, calmly.

La Envidia Mata immediately releases David's throat. He melts down to his knees.

“Why?”

“It is time for you to find out who you really are... Michael.”

Michael? Michael? Who is Michael? La Envidia Mata puts his hands on David's knees.

“You know my name?”

David takes another long drag of his cigar, then puffs the smoke into La Envidia Mata's face.

“I know who you are.”

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

She didn't know, but they watched her every time. They sat in 2B leering over the screen while she romped in 3A; she moaned, groaned, slapped the bedpost in a convincing ecstasy. “More!” She would scream. “Oh God More!”

This particularly dour morning, as the gloomy clouds hang low in a purple haze, a very familiar man brandishes through the door with throbbing pants. The vexed voyeuristics are struck in a chaotic stupor. James Cowan? When Mrs. Cowan finds out, and surely she will find out, they will all be at risk. But how is she to know now, this instant as he lies on the bed, on his back, not his belly, grasps the sheet with his fingertips, and pays the woman a glum smile. The pain in his eyes strikes a dull ache of sorrow in her heart.

“First time?”

“With a real woman.”

Most of the men turn away in shame. They walk to the back of the room with their hands to their foreheads, thinking about their own wives, what this means for their future. Surely their wives will find out and put a merciless end to this perverted pleasure, put an end to their wallets, put an end to their sanity, castrate them and carelessly toss them into a vat of poison to burn with godlessness. And then they'll sit and gossip, talk about margaritas and Mexican food, the cute butt on the newspaper delivery boy, how they spent their alimony check on an oily and well toned Cuban massage, and then cluck to one another about righteousness, thank Jesus for his righteousness, and the importance of a good gay manicurist wearing tight jeans.

It's no wonder so many men have digestive problems.

James's hand gently rubs over her soft, lustrous neck, lustrous because she rubbed the previous night's chafing out with cocoa butter. This made her feel like a real woman. She is, in fact, a real woman. She makes her living honestly, as honestly as she can, and even prays on Sunday, goes to church like all honest women do, spends an honorable amount of time praising the Lord, yelling out his name. Even in bed, in the peak of passion, debauched in desire, she expiates her daily indiscretions by yelling his name: “Oh God! Yes! Oh, God. Yes!”

Mrs. Cowan goes to church too. And how is James to know any better? In fact, now that he is thinking about it, Mrs. Cowan never screams out the lords name in bed, or at church. She has a Bible in the drawer of her nightstand, but rarely opens it. She is always too busy cooking, cleaning, too preoccupied raising Michael, reading him silly children's books, sounding out the words in a soothing voice, letting him suck on her teet, even though he strictly forbids it. Mrs. Cowan sits steadfast, patient, like any good mother. “He'll be weaned when he's ready to be weaned.”

So how can James be blamed when now, as he is blazing with unfulfilled desire, misunderstood and neglected, he turns to a woman, not a mother, a woman, to verify his needs? Is he so wrong to seek this fiery warmth in the comfort of her sympathetic bosom? Why should this man, this honest working man, curl up in the fetal position when the womb, so palpable and pure, swells to grant him the stretching of his legs? Shouldn't all men be allowed to stretch their legs?

“What should I call you?” James asks.

She looks like a Nora, with her high forehead and untamed eyebrows, though the other men that know her well say she looks more like a Robin. She has credulous blue eyes, too innocent for James's taste, but she blinks so frequently that her soft, fleshy eyelids send a murmur in his heart and down his leg, out his foot, and into the air where she gulps it between sips of water. Holy water. She has a mouth of a Sarah, with curves sophisticated and gentle, lips plump and pliable, and every one of her teeth has been molded into spot and bleached to an almost intolerable white.

“Karen.”

James had known a Karen in high school. A fat Karen.

“But I go by what you like...”

A really fat Karen.

“Anything you'd like...”

James knows a Pheobe who works at a strip club in Iowa. She has strong thighs. But her nose sits on her face like an uprooted carrot.

“How about Mary?” James asks.

“Oooh. Like a virgin.”

Indeed that is not what he is thinking. How wrong. The murmurs pulsing through his heart cease at once as he rolls from the bed and stands erect.

“My wife's name is Mary.”

“Oh?” she says. “I'm sorry.”

“No... It's not your fault.”

But that's not what she meant. She meant to say, “I'm sorry your wife is a virgin,” but it came out all wrong. She knows it isn't her fault that his wife is a virgin. But she isn't. In fact, if she would have known his wife, had she met her at church or out shopping for broccoli, she would have encouraged her to make him happy. But the men watching just want them to get it over with.

“What's she like?” she asks.

“I'd rather not say,” James replies, weak at the knees, sitting down on the edge of the bed, gripping the edge.

“She doesn't take care of you?”

“No. It's not that. She just can't take care of me like I need, ya know?”

“Oh, I know,” she says.

But she didn't know. How could she know? Mrs. Cowan is so emasculating, muttering ill will under her breath with a castrating tone. No-one can comprehend the depth of her coldness like James can. When she is at church, her golden cross dangling from her neck, she always smiles and shakes hands, always prays out loud for all of the poor children of the world to be cured of their hunger. But she never once prays for James, for their marriage. Not out loud, for certain. Not in private, he thinks. She's content being this binary of good and evil, half show and half slithering tongue. Please can we make love? I'm tired, James. Please? I have a headache, not tonight. It goes on like that day after day, week after week, and James is yearning so hard that his vision is beginning to blur and his heart to drown in a dense pain.

They are all drowning in a dense pain.

“I need it,” he says.

“Of course you do,” she says, running her hands up and down his legs. It is a strong medicine to take. It sends tingles of delight from the base of his spine up through the top of his head, then dips back down and gets stuck tight somewhere between his shoulders.

“Do you give massages?”

“Do I?” she says, playfully, standing up, crawling onto the bed, then with her balmy hands she kneads the warmth of the sun into his shoulders.

Mrs. Cowan never gives massages, just cold looks. She doesn't permit James to give massages either. But he has, on occasion, when she isn't looking.

“Ouch,” James says.

What? What ouch? What?

Perhaps she is rubbing too hard, or perhaps he isn't used to warm hands. Or perhaps it was the fact that he can't get his damn wife out of his mind and enjoy this woman.

“Oh, baby. Lay back. Let mama take care of you.”

“No... This is wrong... This is all wrong,” James says, pushing her hands away and standing up, hunched over. She isn't supposed to be a mother.

“What?”

“I have to go.”

“But you just got here.”

All of the men collectively sigh, some in relief, some in disappointment, as James grabs his manhood, what's left of his pride, and strides to the edge of the room to jump.

“I'm sorry. This was a mistake.”

And when he leaves, shuts the door and flutters away home, the men do their best to forget about James Cowan, Mrs. Cowan's suspicion, their futures and their wives. They continue to watch her, study her, covet her, play out fantasies in their heads, when they're at work, in between reading bible passages, and pray that James will never return, for they too are honest church going men, who worship every Sunday, and sometimes on Wednesday, always in the name of God, and along with her as she screams His name, vowing to always honor and serve, provided that He allows them to bear witness to her daily sermon and never raise suspicion to the well tuned ears of their matriarchs.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

"But..." La Envidia Mata says.

David stands, digging his cigar into the arm of the couch.

"Come with me," David says. "I have something else to show you."
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