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Peace and Other Stories

Fragments of a Formerly Active Sex Life

Harsh Country
by Julian X  /  fiction  /  30 Apr 2008

This is harsh country, all rattlesnakes and drinkers.  You can clean the place and wash my clothes if you want, but I'll still fuck you and stick a gun in your mouth.  Out here, you fuck up and you're dead.  I have gentle days you'll love, when I'll caress your breast and you'll forget it's the same affection I feel for a lamp.  You can fool yourself, sometimes, into thinking you're a person.  But other days, in less charitable moods, when the adrenaline and testosterone flows, I'll tell you to shut up, as calm as a tortoise, then hit you across the room when you whine like a child.  You can't raise kids among the cacti.  There's water in there, but the thorns will rip your finger open if you confuse them for the flowers.


Out here, every man is judge.  You betray your friend, he's got to kill you.  Men know this.  Men know that, even if they forgive, they've still got the right to claim the traitor's life.  We're all scum and we've known it from the day we're born.  You refuse to obey, but you know the consequences.  You may imagine you've the right, but rights are made with fists like these.  If I fuck you instead, don't confuse it with affection.  You're a thing and so am I.  You don't have to get so emotional about it.  Fuck you and your emotions.  Fuck me and mine.  Shut up and know your role.  Do your fucking job.  Fulfill your function, robot.


Baby, I love you, but it'd kill you to be with me.  Don't think of the sweet days, of the smiling and laughing when we'd forget ourselves.  Remember the days my nuts pulsated between my legs and the idea that you were arguing was so unacceptable to me that I'd have beat you unconscious if you'd said one more thing I could take the wrong way.  Don't remember the coffee and little moments.  Think only of the violence.  The violence there in my voice, some small fraction of the malice in my heart and head.


There are times when my violence is all I admire about myself, times when I hate my love for you, times when my only regret is that I didn't have the conviction to fix you with my hands.  There are other times when I'm human and just want a quiet life of shared experience, when we only want to get along and have some laughs, watching children play from the porch.  But the violence will always return, and it's all that I respect.  Because, no matter how comfortable your life, when the invasion comes, you have to be ready to pick up a weapon and kill as many as you can before you, too, fall and die.


When the glow of initial excitement wanes, when my face and smile don't make you think you're so lucky anymore, it's my violence that you'll hate.  Your problem isn't really the violence:  it's that you're a woman and like to be raped.  You like it when I talk dirty.  There's a part of you that wants to be my whore, that wants to be useful and get fucked.  But you have other moods too, damn you, and there'll be more and more times when you just can't stand me.  It's okay:  it happens to everyone.  You don't live in a cage or a crate.  Unfortunately.  So, when you feel that way, you're welcome to explore the doorway.  Janus wept.


Some day, when you're long gone, I'll find some pleasant peasant who comes from a country where they don't expect husbands not to beat their wives.  Where they don't expect life to be fun, where the most you can hope for is to know you have food and shelter and a family that's not sick and immediately dying.  And she'll be glad to tolerate the violence in these brutish white hands, these hands that reek of wealth and comfort her every ancestor couldn't have imagined.  If she asked her family, they'd tell her:  take his abuse, he's white and rich and American, and you're his woman.  Your mother will tell you to spread for me and take it for the family.  I'll send them a $1 bag of potato chips every now and then, and they'll share it around the old dirty table, in their house with open earthen slits for windows or doors, and they'll devour it greedily, like some Dickens characters in a land old Charles couldn't have imagined.  They'll share their little gift and thank their primitive, superstitious God that you found a man who could have given them this, and it'll never even occur to them that you shouldn't spread your legs or be fucked at will or be beaten should you disobey.  You must think of your ancestors and bend over for the American cock, in all its violent glory.  Fuck your language.  Fuck your culture.  Fuck your rights.  God forbid I should tire of you and your objections.  My ivory hands, even red with your blood, are richer and nobler than any pain.

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Fiction by Julian Darius:
16 Characters, 44 Stories, and the Bird Flies Away
Going Home
Shedding Skins 1 (of 7)
Shedding Skins 2 (of 7)
Shedding Skins 3 (of 7)
Shedding Skins 4 (of 7)
Shedding Skins 5 (of 7)
Shedding Skins 6 (of 7)
Shedding Skins 7 (of 7)
@13:  Three Vignettes
The Hounding of Harold Calfe
Harsh Country
Happy Ending
Drunken Rant
Watching Alice Die
More Coming