A. What will you miss most
B. Miss most about what?
A. About being dead?
B. … no?
A. When you’re dead
B. No
A. but then you have to come back alive
B. What? N
A. What do you think it’ll be hardest for you to leave behind?
B. I don’t want to talk about this.
A. C’mon. Be a pal
B. I’m a pal, I just don’t want to talk about this
A. Be a pal to death, tho
B. No.
A. Death would be a pal to you
B. I don’t think that’s the case
A. What are you talking about? Death can’t wait to get to know ya, know ya
B. So can’t a rapist, or an Avon lady, or a Jehovah’s Witness– doesn’t mean they’re my best buds…
A. An Avon lady?
B. Once they have their hooks in you they will never stop hitting you up, trying to make you one too.
A. But the same as a rape artist?
B. Rape is temporary, Avon is forever
A. … so that’s fine, but death is completely unacceptable to talk about
B. What exactly is a rape artist, by the w? Is it like a Subway sandwich ‘artist’? Or are you implying that there is a craft to it, something to master
A. No. Well, no. No.
B. I’ll take that as a yes.
A. Do you think they have message boards?
B. Well. I know pedophiles do, and all of them are technically rapists– at least the ones who have the courage to act on their convictions– so, yes.
A. Oh yeah. I forgot they were that.
B. You forgot pedophiles were rapists
A. Hey, let’s not go filling in blanks that don’t need explicifying
B. Ugh. But I bet they do. The rapists that is.
A. Rape artists– heh, heh– show some respect
B. Once you can have rape fantasy sex stories you can always just say that that’s what you were doing– though, I have to imagine that if you do anything remotely approaching case-similar details your ass gets patriot-acted.
A. Yeah…
B. And that half the people on those boards are probably from different law enforcement agencies, trying to entrap or bust one another.
A. Ha.
B. How many times do you think they’ve followed-up on a lead, or went to bust someone, just to find that it was some local cop operation, or the FBI?
A. Ha
B. Though, that would make double perfect cover– if you were a rape cop investigating rapes and trying to post real good rape stories on this rape board in order to ferret-out real rapists, but, the stories you were using, the cases you were trying to close, were all of your own rapes that you yourself committed. It would be so easy to pin it on someone else, don’t you think?
A. Yeah
B. I bet it’s happened. I bet more than once. I bet it’s happening right now.
B. It would be crazy to get to read those boards– there’s no way they’re not double secret, password-protected, invite-only tho
A. … why?
B. You’d probably have to prove it somehow, I wonder– I bet. I bet if you wrote one of– a bunch of– those rape fantasy porno stories that someone would reach out to you
A. Uh-huh…
B. I mean, really detailed, a great sense of dread, pure adrenaline. Totally horrifying and totally realistic and totally convincing– if you could post a bunch of those someone would reach out just in the off-chance you were a fellow practitioner– or artist– credit where credit is due
A. You don’t have to
B. No, no. I’m very big on not usurping other people’s ideas.
A. Thanks…
B. So, where was I
A. Talking about rape, probably
B. Uh… oh, right– just in the off-chance — they win either way in this situation. Heads, you’re a fellow deeply impolite traveller and score: welcome to the club. Tails, you’ve got great stories (fake though they are) to share, a great sense of the craft and how this fantasy ticks. And obviously– at this point you’ve probably posted dozens of them– you’re interested in the field, and the invitee can pitch you the site as sort of a goof, or. Not a goof, but that you’re all just sharing stories, not evidence. Probably. They’d keep it ambiguous, tho. That sense of menace, of possibility. They invite you and see how you share.
A. Sure.
B. And, I mean, odds are– I guarantee– like 90% of the people on this board not only have never raped but never would rape.
A. Ok.
B. So, yeah. I bet they do.
A. Great, so can we not talk about rape now? Maybe something more pleasant? Like Death?
B. Would you rather get killed or get raped
B. Seems like a pretty easy choice, I mean. Though, with the latter you never know if the former is far behind, and that’s part of it…
B. Woah.
A. I just wanted to have a fun, speculative chat about death. And here you are, Fucking It Up, with all this God Damn rape talk.
B. Yeah?
A. Can we PLEASE just talk half-seriously, but lightly, adorably, about how one day you’ll be dead, and I won’t, and we’ll never ever, Ever get to talk again?
B. You do know that I hate death– the idea of it, the fact of it, talking about it, even thinking about it. Even even when it happens on tv or in movies,– that I hate that more than any single thing and t
A. I’m sorry
B. And talking about it is far more horrifying for me than talking about rape could possibly be for you since I am definitely going to die, and you are almost – barring a trip to prison–
A. I’m sorry
B. almost definitely not going to get raped. Unless, of course, you were as a child, in which case I apologize PROFUSELY
A. I’m sorry.
B. I’m sorry too.
A. I’m sorry but
B. Don’t do it
A. What will you miss most about coming back to life, about death. When that happens
B. I hate you
A. … it’s less a question about death than it is a question about…
B. It’s actually extra bout it
A. no you’re right: it’s double death
B. Makin’ me think so deeply about what being dead would be like and then makin’ me
A. I’m sorry
B. makin’ me say that I’ll miss being dead– as a premise– promising me I’ll come back to life someday
A. I think I’d miss the security
B. What could possibly be secure about being dead.
A. Well, for one, no one can kill you
B. Fair enough?
A. Or hurt, or rob, or rape you
B. But are you really that afraid of other people
A. Of people? Yeah. But not because of that
B. So what would you miss then?
A. … You’re not going to follow-up on my leading,
B. No
A. perfectly crafted, cliffhanging
B. Nope
A. nugget of vulnerable… something?
B. Is it the security of knowing
A. Yeah. More or less.
B. I can see that. That makes sense.
A. What about you?
A. Ok! What is it?
B. I
A. Let’s go!
B. Ugh
A. What do you figure you’ll miss. About death.
B. The sound.
A. What sound?
B. The way I picture it, I assume there is a sound
A. What’s it sound like?
B. Just, slight; sort of, all the time
A. What’s it
B. Part of me wants to say it would be droning but that seems cliche
A. It does?
B. Well Slaughterhouse-Five said violet light and a hum.
A. You wouldn’t miss the violet light the most?
B. That’s just a book. It’s not real life.
A. So the light’s not violet?
B. There is no light.
A. Oh.
B. You’re dead, you’re not at a rave.
A. But there is still a sound?
B. How else will you know you’re dead and not just… nothing?
A. It can’t be a light?
B. C’mon. You’re dead– your eyes are just empty sockets
A. But your ears
B. It sounds like wind chimes. But closer together, tinnier.
A. That… sounds like the worst sound.
B. It’s death, not a blowjob contest.
A. I take it back. That might actually be the worst sound.
B. It’s awful, agreed. But over time of it being the only Thing– the only sense, the only aspect, the only difference between death and nothing– a buoy over which your drown and coughing consciousness
A. So the sound, ok. Great.
B. … are you ki
A. I don’t want to talk about death anymore.
B. It’s Hard To Picture Because There Is Not Picture, But ALL There Is Is This Sound; Even If It’s Awful, Once It Stops You’ll Cry Because It’s Missing And Now You Are A Body, Expelled, Exposed, Cold, Outside, Alone: A Mouth With Legs, A Butt, And EYES


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