Daddy Rex
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A li’l disturbing. Just a li’l bit. Vulgarity. Cusses. Implicit SA. Nothing too explicit.
Daddy was born half-rotted. Circulation in the womb was off – left him a little off looks-wise and a LOT off in what I calls the 'mental faculties department.' All paralyzed up and down his left side. Gots them chipped tooths and perma-claw hands. Rawr! Like a t-rex. Just how I like him. Cain't blink his left eye so he's always winkin' atcha.
That'd get us into trouble with some of the motel boys, if they ever seen it, let me tell you. They ain't, but if they did, it mights gets them to thinkin' Daddy was up to no good, winkin' at them they girls and such, and then I'd gots lots of explainin' to do: "No, he ain't mean nothin' by it. Daddy ain't got eyes for no one and nothin' but Momma-" and even then he needs LOTS of encouragement.
Hell if half them country boys'd listen, though. Country boys never do. Your average bumpkiss ain't know a needle from a haystack in my humble as pie opinion.
But I cain't rightly take Daddy outside, on account of that eye tic's all I'm sayin'. Well, that and cuz he's always gettin' up to no good inside as is: headbangin' and humpin' the walls and such- you know how it is. There ain't a wall in this whole wide room Daddy ain't tried to fuck.
'Sides... even if I did let him out, I'd have to keep him all leashed up, and he wouldn't like that one bit! But I couldn't risk his chasing after cars like a rabid dog or hoppin' in some truckie's cab for one 'a his joy rides again. That wouldn't do none of us no good. Not me, not daddy, and especially not Momma, sick as she been lately, too.
Oh well. Shame I cain't let him get some sunnin's once in a whiles, but... oh well.
We're quite the pair, Daddy and me. Him, always droolin'; me, always moppin' it up. That man goes through binkies like nobody's business, let me tell ya. A'int nobody teethe through a binky quite like my Daddy. Too bad there ain't binky-teethin' competitions- yaknow what I mean? Like them hotdog eatin' ones? Cuz Daddy'd win 'em all. Put those cryin' babies to shame, he would. I daresay, them babies wouldn'ta know what hit 'em.
Gosh, I'd love to show Daddy a thing or two of the outside world, but after what happened last time... let's just say Momma's got her rules for a reason, and there's a reason not goin' outside, 'cept in dire emergencies, is Rule #1- at the top of the list. That's how you know how important it is, is it's at the top of the list. Wouldn't be at the top of the list if it wasn't as important, now would it?
The rules are for our protection, see? Momma knows firsthand how dangerous the outside world can be. She used to be a 'prostate-toot.' That's a fancy, made-up word for ass doctor. Only men have prostates, way I understand it, so men were her speciality. I learned from TV that doctors have to go to school for a long time to get they paperwork, and anybody who goes to school for a long time to get they paperwork needs fancy, made-up words for things so they gets to feels important and like they time wouldn'ta been better spent, I dunno, drawin' or somethin'.
(And I know there's them people's that's always gonna say- 'well ain't all words made up at the end of the day,' to which I say... phooey! Prime example of Momma's second rule, that there. Rule #2: keep your philosophizin' business up in your noggin' where it belongs.)
Anywho. Momma got into her line of work to help people. To save folks's bodies and minds and souls, most of who's bodies and minds and souls ain't never done nothin' in their life to deserve savin'. I'm not like my Momma. I could never be an ass doctor. You're tellin' me I don't get to pick and choose who I give my medicine to? Pfft. Most people ain't earned what I got to give, no way no how, and that's the short and thick of it. Those motel boys down the way? Let 'em choke on they own spit.
That's how you know she was a real good Samaritan, my Momma, is her workin' long as she did. Real indiscriminate. Lotsa people in need of her services all hours of the night and day. She was good at her job, and sexy to boot- so of course she always had them patients up the wazoo. Or, as she called 'em, candy-dates.
What, you don't believe me? I guess you wouldn'ta know it now – well, maybe you would, if you got the discerning eye – but Momma was quite the looker in her day. Before the nasty man planted me in her, that is. Before I ruined her, so she say.
Makes me ashamed, what I did to her, but it is what it is. I cain't rightly take back my ownself, now can I? But I get why she hit me sometimes. She had a good thing goin' and I mucked it up. Had to say bye bye to her practice. Nobody wants they doctor's appointment interrupted by a squallin' babe! As I got older, a' course, I got better at squirrellin' myself away, but still Momma complained she couldn't perform as well, what with me watchin' from the closet or tucked under the bed.
That's where Rule #3 came in. Forget what I says before, Rule #3's the second most important, and that is... be quiet.
Rule #3's served us well over the years, but as you mighta guessed, it's the rule Daddy finds hardest to grasp. No goin's outside, if you cain't help it, that's easy for him. No philosophizin', well, if you seen him, you'd know there ain't no chance a' that. Rule #4, that's no naughty words – again, he cain't speak – so that just leaves Rule #5, no talkin' to the lettermans.
By golly, is that it? Momma likes her Daddy-time at least once a nightly, but that ain't really a rule 'per se'. On her monthlies it's twice a nightly, bu- mind you, now I think of it, she ain't had a monthly in years... And then well I 'spose followin' the rules could also be a rule in an of 'erself, but you don't really need a rule to follow rules, I don't think, right? That'd just be excessive.
Just five rules, though? All this time? Huh. Guess I never counted 'em before- always figured there was so many I could fill a book! But no, I counted 'em off my fingies, just now, and look here, there's- one, two, three, four, five.... Cain't argue with you's own fingies, now can ya?!
So few rules, you'd think it'd be easy not to break any, but you'd be mistaken, cuz that simply ain't the case. Take the last time a letterman showed up – second last time, I should say. You remember Rule #5, don't talk to lettermans? Well... I didn't know he was a letterman at first, did I? That's how they get you, by not wearing them fancy suits. Doesn't seem fair, but life ain't got no referees, so best be prepared cuz these bastards'll trick you any chance they get!
Like this letterman, for instance. He comes knockin' at our door, peekin' in our mail slat, gettin' reeeeeal touchy-feely – you know how them lettermen get – but of course all that ruckus is distrubin' Mommy's beauty rest and-
Look... I know it don't make it right and I know it ain't no excuse, but I had just woken up from a nap my owns self, and so, well, I wasn't thinkin' straight, okay? Didn't even cross my mind we might have us a letterman on our hands, and so what did I say? I said: "Go away." Just like they says on the TV, I said, "We don't want any!"
I figured 'im for one of the motel boys, but a' course, just my luck, it ain't one of the motel boys, and next thing I know he's yelpin' through the door, askin' if I'm such and such person, usin' Momma's maiden name, and all I can do is say, "No," but in my head I'm thinkin' "Oh, Nora, oh gosh dang nabbit, Nora, what did you do? What did you do, girl, what did you do..."
Well, long story short, it took some convincin', but eventually I got the letterman to go away.
Course, next I looked at Momma her eyes was sprung open and she was right livid. Knew I'd broken a rule before I did, I imagine. I braced myself, fully expectin' a seeing-to, but she didn't raise a hand. Didn't have to. Knewin' I knew I mucked up was enough, I s'pose. Or maybe she just ain't had the energy.
See, the thing about lettermen, once they know yous home, they come back. They always come back. Ain't take much in the way of talkin' to get 'em all curious and ain't take much in the way of curious before theys beggin' to be let in.
Best not to draw them's attention to yourself in the first place, I say, but... that I had.
That I had.
I s'pose I should say a little about me. I always been the rowdy sort, prone to the odd outbursts, gettin' up to no good- it's how I earned myself a permament spot in Momma's bad books. It's why she hit me as much as she did- why I'm so good at dodgin' Daddy's punches.
Momma said I always been good at dodgin' things. Coathangers, especially, whatever that means. I take it as a compliment. She'd say, 'Nora, Imma hit you now and I better not miss, cuz if I miss, I'm gonna hit you twice as hard.' Sometimes I'd dodge without even tryin'. That's how good at dodgin' I is.
But I don't mean to be no showboat, I ain't without my faults, I'll admit. Take the letterman incident. Also, sometimes my seein' gets all fuzzy and I need to lie down 'fore I faint or throw up or start jigglin' on the floor like one of those skimpy poppa girls Momma hates so much.
She calls 'em my 'episodes'. Like of a TV show- just not a 'haha' TV show, like 'Friends,' more like a 'creepy' TV show, one I'd rather not watch, like the one with the aliens and the lettermen.
But hey, that's life! Like I always tells Daddy- it is what it is, and it ain't what it ain't, and what it is ain't shit, but what it ain't ain't great, am I right? But there I goes philosphizin' again...
I just mean I live with it, that's all. Could be worse. We all have our quirks, so take whatchu got and don't complain. Least I don't have a milky prostate. Least I don't have jumblefry, tumble-dry-brain, like Daddy. Least I inherited some of Momma's good looks, even if she pretend I ain't.
Momma's still more beautiful than me, a' course. More beautiful than she ever been, if you ask me. Just... 'stressed'. Sickly. Cramped up in her rockin' chair all the live long day, starin' at the TV, willin' herself to good health... Cain't be not good for her, not seein' the sunlight, but them's her rules and they's here for a reason.
About all the relief she gets comes from that there TV. And Daddy, a' course, though he's less than eager to please most nights. Thing is, Momma don't take as good a' care of herself as she used to. She's still purdy as a peach, just... a stinky peach. Daddy don't like the smell.
I think he's bein' unfair. She's our Momma- why she even havin' a husband if she cain't reap the benefits, ever think a' that? But I know, I know- Daddy ain't no mind for reason. Most nights he gets all squirmy and I gotta force it on 'im, and that ain't pleasant for neither of our sakes.
The worst part a' our day is always the best part a' Momma's.
But I bet you're wonderin' how my Momma and Daddy met though, huh? I bet you bet it was romantic? Well... I guess you could say that.
See, when first daddy was born, wasn't much Momma could do 'cept cross herself and pray for the best. I 's'pose I'm partial to blame. Wasn't wise in the ways I is now – practice makes perfect and all that – but hell if I ain't tried my best! And it worked out, di'nt it? I'll say!
Who'da thought 'half-rotted's' just the right amount a' rot for a Daddy to have!
Oh, Daddy... I 'member the day you was born like it was yesterday, you 'member? Back when Momma was spiff and spry and these rockin' chair days weren't for a few years ahead? Course you doesn't, but still... nice to pretend. We was so scared at first, you actin' the way you did. I knit yous a few binkies outta shoestring and sinky gunk, stiched you up a little bow and bonnet. And Momma, she took a shine to them grotesqueries 'a yours right quick, di'nt she? Always did have a fetish.
Circus woulda paid big bucks for you, back in the day, but there ain't no circuses in this here century. These here are the future days! People all uppity now, think they too good for a good-ol' fashioned freak show, yaknow? They'd just complain us showin' you off was inhumane or somesuch and go back to pretendin' we ain't ever existed, prayin' we starve to death like they think they good Lord intended. But we God's creatures too!
Can ya tell I don't like normal folk? Don't like 'em one bit. Momma's own ma and pa were normal folk, and they ain't even bothered to meet me, nor Daddy neither, not once. But I s'pose it don't make no difference. Whether the circus or Mam or Pap or whoever came a' callin' for Daddy or not, ain't no way neither me nor Momma coulda beared to part with 'im. He was our Daddy.
And so Momma got to resume her doctor-business, and I... got to be a momma! He was Momma's husband after all, and no Mrs in her proper mind wants to be the one to teach her husband the rules, 'specially not when she got a full-grown daughter needs attendin' to, so that honour fell to yours truly. She was never one for raisin' or gestatin', my Momma. The only bendin' over backwards she planned to do on Daddy's count was the mutual backwards over bendin', if you catch my meanin'.
I think it worked out for the best. 'Sides, I like bein' Daddy's momma. Now maybe I'm not as good a Momma as my Momma was to me, nosir, but I'm a pretty good Momma, and I done a fine job raisin' 'em, if I do say so myself.
Or at least I thought I did... But I guess it's true what Momma says.
You can never really know your own kid.
'Spose it cain't be avoided. 'Spose it's time I spoke the hard truth. Makes me sad, puttin' into words what happened. Mistakes were made, but I'm makin' the best of it...
As you mighta guessed, the letterman came back, and this time, he did not knock.
It was the middle of the night, Momma was half asleep, basking in the aura of her TV, and me and Daddy were curled up on the bed. He'd just got done performin' his nightly duties, so to speak, so Momma weren't quite so restless and we was all just about ready to turn in.
That's when I heard a click in the latch.
Immediately, I had an intuition: the letterman! And he mighta brought friends! Scramblin', I yanked Daddy over to the hidey hole I dug in the wall for just such occasions, got his soother on nice and tight, and told him to hush it.
The door opened slowly, creakin' on its hinges a bit, and there he stood, in the flesh, lo and behold: a letterman.
This weren't the first letterman I ever seen, and it certainly won't be the last, but gawd- dayum was he the ugliest. Then again, erry time I see ones I think that. Each one uglier than the last...
Still, I breathed a sigh of relief. By the looks of it, he was alone.
Tentative-like, he came tiptoein' into our abode without so much as a hello- one hand on his peashooter with the dinky light attached, the other pinchin' his nose. "What the fuck...?" I heared him say. Real quiet, under his breath-like, but still- barely in the door and already breakin' rule 4.
I watch him, dartin' his head this ways and that, like a wary rabbit, not used to it bein' so black – not like me – until his eyes settle on Momma.
"What the fuck..." he says again. No country twang in his voice. Cityslicker, if I had to guess. Which means he has even less business bein' here than I'dda s'pected...
Retreatin' deeper into our hole, closer to the womb, I plug Daddy's ears to keep him safe. A brain like his ain't fit to comprehend no naughty words like 'fuck'.
Approachin' Momma, the letterman turns on his tiny chest-light to get a better look and... gags. "What the-" Near on pukes all over her he does. "What the fuck!"
I bristle. It's one thing to swear in Momma's presence, but to mock her to her face? God knows she been so sensitive lately, and here's this fella, wasn't even invited in, overreactin', actin' like he's gonna up and blow chunks! Come on!
Mighty disrespectful, if you ask me. Just cuz she's older now and rocking-chairbound don't mean she ain't still every bit as dropdead gorgeous as she used'a be. If those evil rats hadn't stolen her tongue in the days after her chin fell off, she woulda been capital L Livid.
The letterman falls onto his butt, making them awful pterodactly retchin' noises, and that really sets Daddy off. All 'a sudden he's cryin' and moanin' and shakin' up a storm.
"Shh," I say, rakin' my hand through the scraggly patches of my hair duct taped to his head. Momma always preferred 'em with hair. "Shh!"
But he ain't calmin'. Not this time. Daddies always gettin' riled up when the men with the letters on them chests swing by. Tale old as time. Nothin' a Daddy hates more than them damn, dirty lettermen.
"Daddy," I say. "Daddy-" I'm tryna secure his binky in place, but it ain't no use. Daddy's fidgetin', dartin' this way and that. I clasp my hand to his mouth. He's thrashin' his head. "Daddy," I say, real stern- I don't want to, but I give 'im a little slap. No Momma wants to harm her child, but the letterman's gonna hear us if this keeps up, and if that letterman hears us... that's it. "Daddy-"
Daddy kicks me in the tits and 'fore I know it, twists his hands free a' one a' his casts and wrestles that binky out, all while I'm strugglin' to catch my breath. Next thing I know, he's screamin' at the top a' his lungs- screamin' the filthiest word of 'em all. "Help! Help, I'm in here! Help!"
I smack Daddy upside the head to stop that godawful racket, but it ain't no use.
The letterman snaps to, giddy as a pig in shit, wavin' his gun around this way and that, them three big white letters emblazoned on his chest: F. B. I. "Who's there!"
"Help! Help!" Daddy scrambles out of our hidey hole and the letterman nearly pops him in the head. "She's in-"
Before either of 'em know what hit 'em, I burst out of the hole behind Daddy. A shot goes off but I ignore it – I told you I was good at dodgin' things – and deliver the letterman a nice thwhack on the head. He hits the ground with a plop; I wrestle the gun out of his hand- one-two, simple as that.
And then it was just me and Daddy.
Meek as a muskrat, raisin' those little t-rex hands 'a his far as he can above his fuzzy little head – the man'd be bald if it weren't for me – pleadin'. "Please! Please!"
Please. He oughta know how much Momma hates that word. He oughta know that there word's worse than all the fucks and helps and you sick rotten bitches combined.
And that's when it hits me.
This ain't my Daddy. Not no way. Not no how. Not no more.
A real Daddy plays by the rules, see? Real Daddies don't speak. Real Daddies don't cuss. And real Daddies most certainly don't ask for help from those damned dirty lettermen...
But he ain't learned. We been at this damn near a year now and he ain't learned one bit! "Maybe he ain't the learnin' type," as Momma used to say. Oh, I sure do miss the sound of her prattle. It can be lonely what with only the TV and Daddy's moans to keep my ears company. But I'd rather be lonely than fraternize one more second with a Daddy who ain't learned.
"Please," Daddy mewls. "Please. Pleasssee, pleeeaseee, pleeeeeaaasssee!!!!"
So I shoots him in the head. Puts him out of his miseries.
Bye bye, fake Daddy.
Sometimes I gets to rememberin' ol Daddies, the good and the bad. Momma wouldn't approve, but what goes on in my head cain't hurt her. Rule #2.
They all go the same way in the end. Crumple like one 'a them dangly puppet men. And then I move 'em to the womb, where they rot and start to stink, but not the good stink, like Momma's claptrap- the rancid stink that clogs your pores and makes it feel hard to move in. A stink that gets so bad it draws attentions and then we gots no choice but to move again.
But that stink ain't for a few weeks yet, so I'm mighty thankful. Gives me time to get this letterman situated all nice and comfy in his new forever home. I'm watchin' 'im now, pretendin' to be asleep, but he ain't fool me. I see the way he squirms, binky fallin' out- thinkin' about Momma's pussy, I bet. Reminds me I gots to tauten the straps. Don't want a repeat of last Daddy, do we? And this one might be tricky. Had lots of gadgets on him, he did.
Like this doohickey here that lets me hear my own voice. I got a nice voice, don't I? I don't know what Momma was always complainin' about, I should speak more often! Course, it's hard to hear right now. Still got an awful ring-a-ling in my earholes on account of that wicked peashooter, but it ain't nothin' I ain't overcome before.
Oh, and there he goes! Movin' again, eyes flickerin' open.... This time I gots the circulation fixed just right- hotter than hell in June. And I've done this enough times now to know just how much 'a that weird cotton candy to feed 'im without his skin sloughin' off or him developin' any of them resp-spit-ta-tory issues. He may not be half-rotted yet, but he's fixin' to be soon....
Yaknow what? I think I'm gonna like this Daddy.
Momma's gonna love him, I can tell ya that much. He's got a nice figure and a pretty pecker to boot. That's part of the reason lettermen make the best Daddies. They usually got muskles. And they don't cry as much. And they like followin' rules. Mind you, it's too early to teach 'im just yet, so for now I'mma just lets him be and enjoy the moment.
I like to watch 'em gestate. I like when they scrounge around the womb when they hear me comin', like baby rats scourin' for food. I like when I gets to lay with them at night, rubbin' my hands through they hair before it starts to come out in clumps and I gots ta' give them mine to cover up. I like when they whimper in they sleep. I like when they break in they first binky. I like when they stop shirkin' from my touch and even lean into it a bit, lookin' at me with them big, sad eyes. Almost makes me want to cry. Makes me wonder what it'd be like to have a husband all my own.
But Momma called dibs.
'Sides, I seen the way he was lookin' at her! You ain't just ogle a woman the way he did and get away with it, nosiree. A Momma's got her needs, and a Daddy? A Daddy's got his duties.
He'll love us, in the end, I just know it. Momma 'specially. They all does. Usually around the time they get they first taste is when they stop kickin' up a fuss. Course, before that he'll struggle. He'll scream. He'll damn me out with his filthy whore mouth.
But he'll come around.
Daddies always do.
