On the film set, the emergency paramedics pound on the shaved chest of Branch Bacardi, the latex of their gloves sticking, then peeling off with a tearing sound, their latex palms stained brown with bronzer, revealing Bacardi’s dead blue skin. Their hands punching and pumping Bacardi’s chest, his red, dark-red nipple blood spots their gloves. The razor cut, his shaved-off nipple no longer leaking blood. With the cameraman leaning close, the paramedics sweating, the sides of their shirts, from sleeve to belt, their white uniforms soaked dark gray with sweat, Cassie Wright says, “Are you getting this?” The production stills-photographer shooting coverage, flash after flash from every angle, washing everything in bursts of strobe that leave us blind. Blinking. Breathing the hot air, heavy with sweat and perfume and sperm.
At the same time, Cassie squats over Bacardi’s hips, sitting on the stubble of his shaved pubic hair. With both hands planted on her knees, she pushes down to raise herself. Half standing, she slams her hips down again, but not too fast, not so fast you can’t see Bacardi’s stiff blue erection disappearing inside her. Even dead, that’s a big dick. The Goldilocks of dildos. Battery-powered or manually operated. Dead as the pink rubber version under my bed. As any holy relic in a cathedral. Stiff as the shrink-wrapped rows for sale in adult toy stores. Now a collectors’ item. An antique. Cassie Wright lifts her hips and slams them down, the flash of blue, lifeless dick appearing and disappearing, and she says, “Upstage me . . . you prick piece of shit.” Both of them drenched in sweat. She pounds her pussy down, snarling, “You stole my biggest scene, you rat bastard.” Her eyes washing tears down both cheeks, the runoff of eyeliner and mascara tracing the spidery wrinkles from her eyes to her chin, her face shattered by the network of branching black cracks. One paramedic squeezes clear jelly from a tube, smears the jelly onto a little catcher’s mitt. A small white mitt. Then the paramedic rubs the mitt against another little mitt, smearing the clear jelly between them. Wires dangle from both little mitts, trailing to a box where a red light glows. The paramedic smearing jelly, he says, “Clear!” The other paramedic leans back, away, not touching Bacardi. The catcher’s mitts, really cardiac paddles. A heart defibrillator. A billion volts of electricity, ready to shock Bacardi back to life. The paramedic holding the cardiac paddles, he shouts, “Clear, lady!” into Cassie’s broken, weeping face. And Cassie stands until the fat blue erection is their only link. That dick their only connection. Until the fat head of it pops free of her dripping labia. The stiff blue dick still reaching out, stretching straight up to touch her as she pulls away. The paramedic slams both cardiac paddles on Bacardi’s sagging, sweating chest, and Bacardi’s spine arcs from the current pumped into him. The muscles of his arms and legs swell, defined, etched and cut, his skin hard and tight. In that jolt, Bacardi looking young again, trim and tan, smooth and smiling. His teeth shining, white. His eyes shocked wide open. The photographer’s flash and the spark of paramedic lightning turning Bacardi into a buff Frankenstein’s monster. And in that flash, Cassie Wright looks down at Branch Bacardi restored to his prime, young the way they’d both been young. His perfect comeback. Could be it was suicide, could be her tired knees simply gave out. The gesture was so Romeo and Juliet. But, wouldn’t you know it . . . It can only take a moment to waste the rest of your life. With the billion volts of power still pulsing into Bacardi . . . the cameras rolling . . . Cassie Wright impales herself on his high-voltage, electric-chair, cattle-prod dick of death.