I am the new Martin Luther King Jr. I have a dream, and it is a wet dream. If you want to get into the tasteless realm of wordplay, or word-rape as I call it, you could even call the ugly-cute things that live in my head (when I wake in sweat) 'nightmargasms'. It's a never ending, double sucking, motherfucking, investment in distress, and—above all, friend—a dead baby romance.

I wake with a song burrowed in my soul meat purring softly like a feral kitty. It's sexy like a black man. And it's a song of cattle-prod fuckin', and cock-shaped pistols in prom queen mouths. My name is Alex. And I am a pseudo-necro-pedophiliac. Her name is Claire. You should see the things she does to me, the bite marks. You should look at them and see with your cloudy pedestrian eyes. Medium size love bites all over my person. There is violence in her soul. Her will is malignant. And your penis is the size of my conscience.

Claire has bit me all up and down with her zombie mouth. Little Miss Murder Mouth. Her mouth - her mouth - her mouth is a violence hole. Like the six billion others according to Census. (give me, Jesus Christ, give me, the Census of the Year 2060; you know the reason why...) Even as I write this tome, she tries to gnaw at my leg. But I have duct taped her face shut. I reach down to touch her rag doll-in-the-sun dirt hair, and look into her pretty-pretty stupid eyes. You're probably wondering where I got this zombie girl. Once upon a time in a landscape of decay and viral warfare....

There was a pretty little thing called Claire. Her A's were straight and her morals were virgin-tight. And then her brother came home. He had just escaped from a Home for the Marginally Insane. He screwed up Claire's life with a tire iron. Crippled the poor little lamb, only twelve. Cracked her skull clean open. He covered her nude body in honey and destroyed the television, and Claire, with a tire iron.

You can't get enough, can you, you exposition whore?

She survived, sort of, and she wandered the Interstate begging for spare change and giving blowjobs to truck drivers. It was sort of like that movie Little Orphan Annie. She turned cannibal in the Tempe, AZ badlands. When I met her, I was wearing pink lipstick in hopes of bringing about a gay bashing. Because I was packing heat. And I was packing meat - Deliverance style. I had gel in my hair and Hell in my heart. I kissed every mailman I saw.

And when I laid eyes on the Fallen Angel. We shared a rail of powdered fetuses on the spot off a Mickey Mouse mirror, fell in love, and fucked. She told me she wanted the pain to go away. That cannibalism wasn't the answer after all. Wild impulses on the wings of everything being interconnected and that I belong to a secret cadre of people whose nature I cannot define, but intuitively feel apart of. So I took her home.

The slanted eyes of the Japanese see all. I checked out an old text from the library that had somehow escaped the sweeps of fever-pitch McCarthyism. A book from Japan, I skipped to the end; it outlined a one-step procedure for premature Nirvana. There are zombie whorehouses in Japan, several of them. Zombie geisha girls in frilly kimonos. They chain them to the walls and paint their faces with life colors, like red, and blue, and black. And they powder them, with exotic powders. It’s true. And sometimes when the zombie geishas get out of line, they are executed with katanas.

First there was the drill. I stuck it in Claire's head, into the part of the brain that generates and regulates emotion. Her endorphins went dry and she was mine. And then there were the band-aids. Her eyes did not open poetically when the impromptu lobotomy was through. Her eyes had been open the whole time, and the look of brain damaged stupidity, the blessed stupidity of tire iron assault did not change. It was her mouth that opened.

She started waking up, like some daycare from Hell where naptime was over. She got to her feet, the clumsy little thing, like a sadistic string puppet. I lifted the Catholic schoolgirl uniform skirt, and I pistoned her with abandon while simultaneously playing Marilyn Manson’s Antichrist Superstar, and watching Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange. Her cute little nose flared, her nostrils opening like pulsating death holes. And she smelled me like I was fried chicken, or some gourmet muffin with feelings.

All that was left of her was hunger. She craved meat. Endlessly so, she bit a chunk clean right out of me! She could no longer discriminate between food people and love people. And her carnivore teeth sweetly ripping my skin away while she snarled with zombie-orgasmic pleasure. No one could dream of the unlegislated acts of pseudo-necro-pedophilia that took place that day. With the black wax skull candles, and the pink skull candies: my one true indulgence. I finished before she did.

Dear Sweet Claire, she started walking across the room after me, and she snarled at me. She gnashed a gash in my calf. She opened her hungry mouth to show me her braces. I took the last drag off the cigarette I was accustomed to smoking after orgasm. Phillip Morris has infiltrated your bedroom! And I flipped the still burning butt in her face like she was nothing more than an abuse doll to make up for years of boot heels on my crown; my crown of needles, my crown of closed doors. SLAM!

And close to the last thing I wanted was to have to cave the rabid little bitch's skull in with a tire iron or a baseball bat just to get her to stop. Brother dearest did some number on her with that tire iron. Why is it always sloppy seconds for Alex? All life really consists of is being passed from the first rape machine to the final, my Aunt Mittens used to say all the time, accosting me by the lapels and berating me (yes, I always wear lapels, turned up so 80’s like James Spader, and her name wasn’t actually Mittens we all just called her that because of the time she destroyed Thanksgiving; I guess she had reason to tirade time and again about rape machines).

I dressed Claire as a ballerina and chained her to the refrigerator. I resolved to get one of those dog funnels, and I put it around her head. I tried stuffing her mouth with chewing gum to satisfy her oral fixation, to no avail. I tried Juicy Fruit, and Wrigley's Wintergreen. She would not suck lollypops. I couldn't bear to watch her suffer, in her empty-headed vulgar hunger, because I craved her zombie kisses, and I loved her. So I took her for a walk. I took her out for a snack. I chained her little white Disney neck.

And as we walked through the neighborhood, there was yellow police tape fluttering all over the place, much of it ripped and shreds of it flying around like awful post modern snow flakes. And as we walked, she dragged that gimp leg of hers behind her. Her little white sneaker dragged along the ground turning black, the pink laces untied. We walked through the park. The birds were singing. But there was something sneering and triumphant about their choir that made me hate them. I stopped to throw stones at them. And this only seemed to make them rejoice more.

The park was no pretty scene by the time we were through there. I gave her something to tide her over alright. There were splashes of red in the green grass. And on the monkey bars in the playground. The aftermath of a game of jump rope violently disrupted. The bodies of two children tragically abandoned like tamale husks. One of the slain jump ropers lay entwined with the cord, like a snake wrapped about her form. It was all so tragic and ball shrinking. Made my dick curl up. The whole scene made my dick curl up. But I found it only fitting, and maybe it would help to lighten the mood, should I take my daughter/lover/zombie for some dessert.

And how opportune, that there should be an ice cream man just 'round the corner. I see you, baby...shakin' that ass. Peddling your calories, you fiend. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Sherbet Heads with eyeballs of rock candy so bitter. When my visions of violence found their expression, his classic white uniform was splashed artistically with red. And he lay slumped against the ice cream truck and it still churned out its jolly tune.

There were six children as well, the Brady Bunch of Victims. Claireabell’s peers. Claire looked at them blankly, like an accountant. But her mouth was open wide. The obituaries would prose-morph the facts to dust with hyperbole, but the truth was that there were six kids with missing skin following the perpetration of our best Bonnie and Clyde. Of course the children would have been too fast for the zombie girl, and that is why I brought a bat. And their ice cream cones lay empty on the sidewalks.

Only one boy tried to run. He saw Claire open her meat-hole wide. Saw deep down into her body, a mouth with no belly. I brought my bat down and crushed his little skull.

I felt awful.

I felt wonderful.

I felt the weight of the world get just a little bit lighter. And when Claire and I had slaughtered the ice cream vender and his customers, the weight of the world was turned to pink feathers dancing on my spine.