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HEAD

SHE HAD AN incredibly small head and it’s exactly that part of
Monica that made the most sense to me.
“My g-g-god,” Monica gasped. A stutter broke her voice, it
seemed to fall softly and roll down into her lap. The chair bounced
up off the floor and a wheel must have nearly come off the desk
chair.
Wheels back on the floor, her eyes were bulging when I showed
her my offer.
Up against the light I held it by the hair. It was ghastly.
Meeting her eye to eye, it threw a shadow over the reflections in
the glass slab that separated us in our positions over the
bargaining block as this priceless head that I held in my hands
was certainly one that she had never seen before.
Not like this anyhow. I was smiling.

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I FIRST MET Monica on the trade route of Slave Rowe which is an
insider nick-name for the small shops lining the old streets down
around Bleecker, just below Washington Square.
Slave Rowe got its name from all of the one of a kind items that
can be found there and the blood and the sweat and the tears and
the hard work that goes into keeping them that way as all the
shop owners and proprietors and most of the customers around
there know very well. Hang around Slave Rowe long enough and
you’re bound to end up a slave yourself. To your new cravings for
collecting all of this strange stuff. That is, if you don’t first end up
a slave working day and night to try and pay for it all.
Hand carved chess pieces and other rare antiquities line the
window fronts. Classic convertible Mercedes and Bentleys fill the
parking spots by the curb. Hot dog vendors get chased away with
broom sticks by people chanting Voodoo spells in their shrieking
cries. If it’s rare and desirable and cost somebody their life to
make it or obtain it you’ll most likely find it somewhere for sale
around Slave Rowe. From taxidermy reptiles listed as endangered
species smuggled out of tropical places to stone tablets borrowed
from ancient tombs found around the perimeter of the great
pyramids. Dinosaur bones, unusual meteorites, illegal Chinese
herbs and occasionally even people can be purchased if you know
which doors are which and which times to knock. Some conceal
priceless objects, others are scams. Like anywhere I guess.
Most of it’s the type of stuff that nose-up stock brokers who
played the markets just right and well-to-do old men with chips
missing from their shoulders, mustaches laying on their chins, and
worms crawling through their hearts collect to remind them of
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their boyhood dreams of conquering places far off the beaten
path.
These places, the ones off the map, just happen to be the same
places that I frequent.
It’s my job. I track down and obtain the rare and bizarre. From
all over the world.
And like these far away lands of enchantment, when you
frequent these shops, just sometimes you run into the macabre
and the strange. Beyond just the artifacts and items tucked into
dark corners.
That’s where Monica comes into the picture. She was all of that
and then some, my Monica.

“C’MON DAVID, WOULD you do it as a favor?”


No way, I said to him and I was already on to shaking my head
and crossing my arms.
What Salli wanted from me was out of the question. Completely
out of the question.
I only dealt in items that held up to the books in customs and
that meant no smuggled goods or anything that might land me
back into negative numbers and I had learned that lesson way too
many times to count.
Authentic African masks and golem statues were a specialty of
mine, while hauling back rare lumber from deep in the Congo was
something of a favorite trick, and I also often ventured into South-
East Asia when hired by private collectors to track down pottery,
and sometimes I’d even bring back fine beads and jewels,
although really I would travel almost anywhere for the right price
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and had even made it as far into the great voids as very close to
the very north of the north pole, on one occasion (To hunt down
baby seal clubs and mallets.)
But what my friend was asking me, I already knew not to go
there.
What Salli wanted was for me to meet a special client who had
recently moved into the neighborhood, right down the block.
She was an avid collector of human skins and bones, heads in
particular.
I knew better.
“C’mon David. She’s loaded.”
Blue Suede Salli just wouldn’t let it go.
Blue Suede as his friends call him (He’s one of the top hat
makers in New York and he makes his own rare handmade hats,
some made of peacock feathers, etc, etc.) or Salvador, as he’s
known to me, we went way back. Animal skins and rare feathers,
we swapped. His cash for the hides of many poor unfortunate
critters that lost their lives on the great roadways across the South
American, African and Eurasian continents.
“By the way. She’s absolutely beautiful David.”
My eyes drew in some light.
“Beautiful? How beautiful?” I asked him.
“She’s gorgeous. Curvy. A knock-out. Exactly your type.”
Her head? I asked him.
It’s kind of small, he said. He made a small gesture with his
hands. As if sizing it up.
No, I laughed. I mean…

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Salli blushed and, “Absolutely Not. No way sir, no.” He went
red and took a step backward, knocking over a display shelf of his
thousand dollar snake-skin hats.
“You know I would never cheat on Asako,” he said in his
embarrassment as he picked up the hats one by one, realigning his
display rack, looking directly at me the entire time like he wished
for me to help him out. But he also could have been trying to see if
I was aware that he was a lying cheat.
I watched on with a smile as he picked up the hats. Rarely
would I help out or pick up after somebody else’s mistakes. Even
Salli’s. Just a thing of mine.
“That’s not what I meant either,” I humored him.
“Her face. What does she look like?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” he responded.
“I don’t know. An actress or a musician. Compare her to
somebody we both know.”
“Gee. I don’t know David,” Salli said to me.
He looked genuinely confused. Like this question was so out of
the ordinary that he might have to hop on the computer and
spend a few hours comparing sketches and photos. Worthless.
The guy could turn a half eaten armadillo shell into a silk fedora
and here he couldn’t even tell me if her nose resembled Barbara
Streisand’s or the Eiffel Tower.
“What’s the difference?” he laughed. I laughed. We both shook
our heads at this moment of ‘what to do?’.
As we stood there I finally bent over to pick up one of the hats.
It was sitting right by my foot. I gently placed it on my head,
fitting it snug on top of my ears as I turned to look in a mirror on
the wall. It fit perfect and I was deciding on keeping it for doing
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him this little favor. When I turned to look as Salli he was shaking
his head from side to side.
Sure enough, after a few more bottles of beer I eventually
agreed. I had to see for myself.
Although no way was I going to move any real human remains
artifacts into the country as these are highly illegal in today’s age
and not to mention, just a few notches below my caliber. No
matter how hot she was or how much loot she had to blow.
However, I had just enough brains to decide that if she was as
beautiful as he said she was, I might even help her find that
special importer with just the right head on his shoulders.
Depending, of course, on how far she was willing to go with the
one on mine (The other one also.)

SALVADOR TELLS ME you’re the best, she said. She said it with
the conviction of an executioner in her uniform. Her dress slacks
and white blouse put her in a perfect place to play my master.
I was wowed instantly by Ms. Monica. Not just at her looks, but
her voice. It was low and baritone and yet strangely sexy.
As for her ‘head’, Salli was correct. For a woman who’s head
seemed a bit dwarfed in comparison to her curvy voluptuous
form she was absolutely stunningly beautiful. Hot like they don’t
make them any more.
And a real bitch to top it off.
But not in the classic sense. Not catty, nor mean, nor stuck-up,
nor prissy and prude.

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She was abruptly up front and rude. A serious gaze took the
glasses on her face from outlining her perfect features into
enhancing the curves and proportions of her devious mind.
“What exactly is it about decapitated human heads that does it
for you?” I had to ask.
She once again glared at me as if I was just too misinformed
over what she was all about.
“They’re intriguing,” she began as she stood up from behind the
desk. Then she turned around for a brief instant and drew back a
small curtain on the wall. Behind the curtain was a wide glass
panel like one of those on a modern shower. It left a view into a
display of about ten different human heads sitting on shelves,
some shrunken, some full sized, some larger than normal, all of
them hideously grotesque. Noses pierced with porcupine quills,
eyelids stitched shut with suturing string, chipped-out ears, most
were packing a head of hair that could have come from the
douche-bag of a three hundred year old octopus.
I rolled my eyes.
“Seen them before,” I said and then I sat back.
Because I was lying.
For the first time since we had started speaking, I felt
uncomfortable. I don’t know what it was – I really had seen many
of these marveling spirit totems in passing but these heads in
particular that she had put together in display were so well
selected. They all seemed to be staring right at me. Guilting me.
Even the ones with their eyelids stapled shut.
I backed away from the desk and Monica inched forward
around the edge of the desk. Below me my bag of a briefcase sat
looking up at me like the only life form in the room. I was leaning
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back in my chair, my legs extended and I could have toppled
backwards.
The little brown satchel flapped open at my slightest touch.
Monica slid further down the edge of the desk toward my legs
but we remained far enough away from one another for us to keep
our own pockets of air hovering around each of our noses and just
the right distance for the light to silhouette our shadows on the
wall where our breathing was finding similar pace.
“What I don’t get though,” I leaned forward and responded, “is
the fascination with them being decapitated. What’s wrong with
the heads of the living?” I sort said in my best charm.
“The living are always lying to me.”
She looked off out the window behind us. “My guys up in that
case,” she paused, “They never lie.”
I understood her. Genuinely understood her.
With a face and body like Monica had, and an attitude and style
and pocket-book to match, not to mention this fascination with
collecting the morbid remains of human sacrifice, she must have
been through quite the list of tall tales and many a madmen to tell
them. But the heads in my opinion, they were the biggest liars of
the bunch. They said nothing and in these times that’s almost as
bad as telling somebody they’re going to live forever.
“You’re sick,” I said to her. It just popped in there.
“I know,” she responded, right as soon as I spoke my peace.
And she was still wearing her slight devious smile which had me
wanting to kiss her right then and there but we had more business
to discuss first.
“Well what about me?” I asked from down below.

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“What about you?” She looked down at me from her side and it
almost seemed like the leather briefcase below me was blinking at
us both in a nervous tremor. As if it was alive and stitched of
human skin.
“How do you know I’m not lying to you also?” I played my
inquire.
“About what?” she groaned.
“Well,” I said, “How do you know I won’t return with fakes? I
hear there’s some out there made of monkey skin that are such
good copies you couldn’t tell if you opened them up and ate
them.”
“I trust Salvador,” she answered immediately.
“Salli could be lying to you also,” I said.
“Cut the crap,” she barked and my smile went twice as wide.
I inched closer towards her to get a feel for what she was
prepared to offer. I knew better.
And she offered it all.

NOT SEVERAL MORE minutes and my pants were down around


my ankles.
It was the best head I had ever had by far. Head and shoulders
above the rest. It was so good the leather briefcase below me was
covered in goo and slime when I was finished, yet during, before
or after the act, my dick never went anywhere near it.
Monica was certainly the type that guys lose their heads over.
She took me down in one gulp. Up and down, slow, soft, hard,
fast, slow again and steady. I blew my load several times in

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succession as she swallowed down the hard truth: I needed to get
paid.

THE NEXT MORNING, a four thousand dollar check in my hand,


which was half of my payment up front, and I was sitting on an
airbus headed to New Guinea. I looked at the check and I listened
to it crinkle when I folded it up again and placed it back in my
wallet. It smelled like salty tears.
My seat on the plane had me in a perfect position. I was sitting
on the plane between two beautiful blondes, both of them
stunningly gorgeous and not once did I look down either of their
opened v-neck shirts. Nor did I even think about the flirt. I didn’t
say one word to either one.
Hands behind my head, the entire time I thought of Monica.
The other part of my payment was to be received when I
returned. Slow head. A year’s worth of blowjobs all crammed into
one sitting. It was the best deal I could get, and in my opinion, for
the quality of what she had to offer, it was well worth it.
When the plane touched down I went right to my sources.
Tracking down mokomokai, or the heads of ancient tribal
warriors killed in conflict, was not at all a difficult task for
someone the likes of me. Although not something I was an expert
in dealing with, it was certainly a much easier task than finding
tzantza, or the famed shrunken heads of Ecuador and Peru.
This was in fact what Monica was really after. But, in my
negotiating, I was only prepared to go so far. And I got lucky.
Monica was open minded and had a thing for various sizes.

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Unlike shrunken heads, mokomakai are merely regular sized
human heads that have been put through a simple tanning
processes to preserve the facial features into a stale pâté block of
rough-shave akin to a hunk of hardened clay. And as the
mokomakai found nowadays almost always date back at least a
hundred years, they can be obtained fairly easily if one has the
right contacts. That’s where I came in. Having the correct
information often means success.
There was little to worry about and everything went as planned.
Tribal conflicts nowadays in New Guinea are settled over clothing
and electronic trinkets and dry goods. Trophies taken back during
night-time raids when one tribe loots and pillages from another
village bringing back the medals of their victim’s pride, they
almost always consist of a large sack of Gucci and Channel and
Levis. Occasionally somebody takes the head of a pet cat or a dog.
There was no need for me to even deal with the natives. I was
on my game and using my head correctly. I knew just who to
contact and where to go to find these rare commodities of top
shelf human ends.
Not much in New Guinea had changed since I had last been
there and within several days I had amassed a small collection of
heads while my middleman took his ten percent after doing most
of the footwork and legwork (and neckwork) himself.
I used my head and played patient.
Some of them looked mighty fine in the disturbing kind of way
like a decapitated and dried-up head might look like sitting on the
table next to a bowl of your morning cereal.

12
I took another bite out of my breakfast banana and went over
the score. I thought about Monica and wondered, Are these good
enough?
It was really the blowjobs I was thinking about and all the places
my mind drifted to while thinking about her head between my
legs, talking dirty and using her fantastic mouth to make me a
master. When I was finished drifting out of daydreams chalk-full
of Monica’s fantastic mouth, I found one of the shriveled-up heads
sitting in my lap eerily close to my throbbing erection.
Oh how excited I was to get back to New York.
But Monica had seemed so displeased when I refused to visit the
Amazon to track down the rare shrunken heads that are still made
out of the flesh and bones of modern day men.
“C’mon David. Whatever it takes,” she begged me, “I’ll suck
your cock a thousand times,” with those eyes.
But there were good reasons why I wouldn’t go. During my
adventures while navigating the jungles of the Congo, I had once
watched a twenty foot crocodile swallow a man whole. Another
time, in the country of Costa Rica, I witnessed an entire village
being devoured by ants over the course of several hours. I even
once had a close call with death myself during an encounter with
pirates in the act of human trafficking deep in a remote area of
Indonesia.
The Amazon is an unpredictable place and what Monica wanted
was me to take a boat trip into the middle of nowhere to negotiate
with savages over severed heads. Yeah right.
The truth was even in New Guinea there are still tribes on the
fringes that partake in human sacrifice. They’re mostly way out of
the reach of modern day civilization but they’re still there.
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Michael Rockefeller, son of a vice president and one of the
wealthiest men in the world, met his demise at the hands of these
barbarians not much more than fifty years ago and I couldn’t help
but remember this. It zipped through my mind as I looked down
at one of the heads in the cargo crate before I nailed it shut. The
figure seemed to have fairer skin than the rest and his face wore a
familiar look of snob.
“No, it can’t be,” I thought.

THAT FIRST NAIL splitting the wooden box made a sound like a
giant mosquito letting one rip.
Thank god the savages were nowhere near me nor the booty
and everything was looking good. All packed, I was back on the
plane and the heads were on their way in safe cargo to meet me a
week later at the ship yards on the shores of New York.
During my trip I was also able to obtain some new highly
desirable animal skins for Sal and also some other items of
curiosity for another collector who lived on the upper east side,
nice client, and with some other contacts and a little bit of
finagling and some good old fashioned magic, plus a few
kickbacks to top it off, I was fairly certain everything was safe and
sound. The heads were in good hands.
The plane went up, the plane went down.
Monica went up, Monica went down.
For four hours straight Monica gave me head, part of our
bargain, and for four hours straight I reached places on the map of
ecstasy that are rarely found as I ventured into places in my mind

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that are hard to leave and I would swear that my body’s never
been the same since.
“How was it?” she asked me when finished, “Was it worth it?”
“Oh, why yes! Yes! Of course!” I was hoping for a little extra.
Safe to say, it wasn’t enough. Rarely is.
She made the same claim about the heads. They were fine
specimens and a nice addition to her collection but nothing new
and exciting or strange enough to turn her and her twisted mind
into my obedient lap slave.
The truth was I might have even fallen for Monica. Not head
over heels, but neck over necktie for certain.
It wasn’t just the head it was the way she made me feel. Like
that guy who goes to the end of the world and risks his life and
ends up a sucker for a one-of-a-kind lady with large lips. In some
sick twisted way this was a twisted fantasy of my own, being that
special somebody with the only means to an end and her in the
palm of my hand. Instead, in the palm of my hand all I found was
my shriveled up dick.
So I tried to finagle some sort of relationship where I could enjoy
her fantastic attributes while working patiently to try and tone
down her side of these sick and twisted fantasies. But of course, it
didn’t work.
I tried to get her to date me but she was too frigid, too cold
when it came to exchanges of warmth. She was too interested in
her morbid fascination with heads and each and every time we
went out to eat we found ourselves discussing business. It always
ended with her guilting me over going back into the field to track
down what she was really after: more human remains.

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I thought about the heads in her display case, guilting me. At
night in my dreams they appeared and urged me to keep them
warm with bodies and warm with more heads from more people
and often I awoke in a freezing fit of sexual tension that two
hands of hard pulling masturbation couldn’t conquer.
“Isn’t that enough!” I tried to reason with them.
But the truth was, Monica needed more heads for her collection.
Sometimes, I even thought the head she was really after, was
mine.

SOON ENOUGH I was back on another airplane. This time the


destination was New Zealand.
The heads of Maori tribal warriors, dating back to the turn of the
previous century, have recently been the center of media scandals
from France to Japan. This is because the headhunting Maori tribe
has been on a warpath to have their ancestors remains returned to
their descendants for proper burial. Really, they could give a shit
about their abusive and long dead relatives. It’s a ploy to get
lawyers involved and rake in a lot of cash, but that’s beside the
point.
As difficult as it was pleasing Monica’s fetish, it was even more
so dealing with the angry Maori, some of them meeting my offers
with spears and Louisville Sluggers. But I did what I could and
don’t you know it I eventually hit the mother load.
After several weeks exhausting all sorts of leads I was
introduced, through a contact, to a Maori tribal leader who was
hard up for cash.

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Apparently he was so hard up that he was willing to let me talk
him into my own idea of a fair trade: forty two heads from his
deceased relatives for four hundred dollars cash and two tickets to
The Sea World Aquarium in Sydney (The tickets came
complimentary with the agreement there would be a second trip
to the island, to return the heads, which I claimed would be for
sale should he be able to clear up his debts. Of course, I lied. I’m
no pawn broker and I had no intentions of following through on
returning and so the tickets ended up in the garbage. Somehow I
think he knew.)
Standing there he shook my hand and the look on his face as I
drove off was one of some lost and gloomy doubt, yet still hopeful
yearning for a brighter tomorrow. I sort of understood.
One of the heads was a spitting image of the chief. For all I knew
it was his father or grandfather or brother.
On the way back to the hotel that same head was sitting on the
seat next to me in the rental car staring at me like, “You better
make sure Monica likes us! We have a no return policy if she
don’t!” I picked it up like a basketball and banked it off the roof
into the back seat with the rest of them and kept driving.
It took another week and a whole lot more money than I was
prepared to spend getting them out of the country but the thought
of those blowjobs pushed me into survival mode and I worked
miracles shaking hands with shipyard snakes and partaking in
scandals with a slew of lowlifes straight out of an overflowing
sewer, doing those dirty kinds of deeds that had the heads hardly
worth it by the time they made it back.

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“GOD DAMN IT David! Most of these are fakes!”
There was no calming her down. Acid was emanating in fumes
from Monica’s crazy clown face undoing in its make-up job.
Her spit was burning holes in my cheeks and she was shrieking
while going on a tirade of terrible rampage and a holler with no
bottom to it.
God damn it! You stupid son of a bitch! she cursed me.
I couldn’t help but remind her of how the glass was really half
full, depending on how she looked at it. There were still six,
maybe seven heads in the basket that were legit.
“These aren’t Maori,” she exclaimed.
You see the stitching? And the tattoos. These are much more
recent.
How recent? I asked, my eyes popping out some stitching of
their own.
“Like, recent. As in within the past few years. Shit!”
My mouth opened and my lips went down at the sides.
“Oh well,” I returned to her, “They sure look good to me,” I
coughed, “So how about we take care of payment now?” My legs
were itching and my knees were twitching and my smile was
bright and cheery.
“Not a chance you bastard,” Monica wore the chastity strap over
her face in ways that had my own mind off limits to me and
physically unable to even think about her crawling around on the
floor below me.
My bag was once again below me and so instead I bent over to
pick it up as it stuck to my sticky fingers.
I was fresh out of solutions for saving the day. So I just
shrugged and headed out into the hallway. The door closed
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quietly behind me as I turned around hoping she was waiting for
my return. But there was nothing but darkness and an empty hall.
“I guess this is it for us,” I shrugged again.
But I couldn’t just call it quits. I was addicted to Monica. I
needed more. As much of her as I could get.
Soon enough we were talking again. Just talking.
“By the way David. I don’t know that I’ll be needing you
anymore,” she said to me.
My eyes flickered and I felt a sting in my heart.
“I met somebody,” she said, another sting.
“He’s not quite like you. Not so talented and well connected,”
and as she went on the sting subsided.
“But he’s quite an expert in heads. Supposedly he’s got his
hands on the head of a French soldier beheaded by Al-Qaeda.”
Monica bit into her salad and I cringed as the sting moved deep
into my aching member.
I had been beaten. Whoever this new guy was he was the head
of the class and he had access to some serious top shelf material
when it came to decapitated heads, but I wasn’t going to lose my
own head trying to outdo him.
“What do you want from me?” I asked her.
“Nothing,” she said swallowing down her cold and crispy
dinner. It slithered and wiggled a bit on the plate.
I looked at my plate and dropped my fork.
The dinner was costing me. The small talk was costing me.
“I mean,” I went on, “You know what I want. How much?”
Monica’s eyes went up toward the ceiling and she sat there lost
in whole slew of patience trying.
“You savage!” I accused her.
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“You betcha,” she answered me with a smile.
I knew better.

WITHIN MOMENTS IT was settled. I accepted my loss with


dignity and agreed to head out into the Amazon to get her what
she really wanted.
By morning I was on a plane, well on my way to try and put my
hands on some real tzantza, which are shrunken heads that are so
unique that they can be found no where else in the world but in
the territory of the Shuar people who live in complex tribes along
the river systems from Ecuador down into Peru.
The problem was I had few contacts there which meant I had to
do the leg work myself. And that really pissed me off. Also on my
mind, the Amazon is a dangerous place and certainly not one of
my favorite places to be. Hot and muggy as all hell, it’s full of
more death than it gives in its abundance of festering, bleeding
life. The wandering spider, often found crawling on just about
everything, can kill you in hours. A slow agonizing death that will
rot a limb off if it doesn’t kill you. Not to mention piranhas,
electric eels and poisonous vipers that can kill you even quicker.
There’s even plants there that can kill you and that’s if the food
doesn’t get you first.
“Up river. We must go far.”
His name was Alvaro and he was my guide. With two other
men maneuvering the boat we had been on the river almost a
whole day after starting off in Chimbote and heading inland to the
banks of the Maranon River where we made our launch.

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The Peruvian highlands have little jungle and are a beautiful
place, no question. However they’re still wild and must be met
with caution and I had left so quickly that I didn’t have time to
properly prepare for the trip. I was a real sucker for those lips. My
bowels were acting up and it was hard to keep food down. I was
sick and my guide Alvaro was only interested in making my
experience as miserable as possible.
“Heads up!” he called out as he tossed me a coconut. I looked at
it and all I could see were facial features, the shape of a nose
where there was a bump and a pair of lips where it was split. The
two holes he had put in it looked like little eyes guilting me. The
juice was pouring out and it had me puking again in an instant.
We were looking for the Jivaro which are the most notorious
tribe of the Shuar people, who throughout history are well known
for sacrificing their enemies and shrinking their heads to keep as
trophies. They believe this preserves the deceased person’s soul
and gives them that person’s power. The process involves
removing the skull and soaking the head in a special preparation
of plants and minerals and then sculpting it back into shape to
preserve its features.
Where the soul fits into it, I have no clue, but what I was
absolutely sure of was that my soul would be fitting its way into
Monica’s beautiful mouth provided we ran into a little luck. Oh
the power of that tongue!
Our first stop met with fortune by fine finagling. We had
encountered a small tribe of Jivaro who were willing, behind
Alvaro’s cheap talk and bad jokes and decent translating, to pawn
us off a couple genuine heads.

21
Further up river we met some more success and added another
head to the collection.
The Jivaro are an interesting group of people. Although most of
the tribes in the lower valleys have changed dramatically in the
last hundred years, conforming to more modern standards of
living, most tribal members still wear their sacred attire, colorful
garments consisting of feathers and lavish necklaces. They almost
resemble wild beautiful birds of megalithic proportions and some
of them are quite large for natives. Like little sky gods meeting us
on docks, they showed up to point us further along on our path to
collect people’s heads.
Each day we made it further up river, deep into the heart of the
lower Andes, although it was getting exceedingly more difficult
for Alvaro to negotiate and some of the places where we docked
we were instantly met with tribal members that were mean and
relentlessly adamant about us turning around.
We pressed on though and soon we were at a fork in the road, a
place where the river split and one path took us through jungles
toward the Amazon River.
Looking down at one of the shrunken heads, it was so small.
Just under the size of a small crab apple. It sat in my fingers like a
ripened piece of fruit. It had a light coating of peach fuzz running
from the chin up into the cheeks. It was so fascinating, almost
appetizing to look at. I even thought about taking a bite out of it.
Yes – my appetite was returning! The sickness was gone.
Then I thought of Monica back there behind her desk, her face
red and her frown out and on full-force, yelling at me, “God damn
it David!?!? Why didn’t you bring me more!”

22
I knew that if I didn’t get this right, heads would roll. Starting
with mine.
“Let’s do it,” I looked up at Alvaro and he smiled down with his
big stupid buck teeth and we were on our way into more
dangerous territory.
I also knew well what we were headed toward.
Further up river through the jungle, the tribes are much more
secluded from the modern world and as killing and shrinking
heads during tribal conflict has long been passé and illegal for
most of the Shuar tribes, there are well known Jivaro clans that
live further up river and deeper in the jungle that still partake in
collecting heads.
Were we on their list of possible enemies? I had hoped not and I
then I considered it.
I looked over at Alvaro, the dumb Peruvian and his safari hat
and the two idiots manning the motor, our cases of beer and
cigars, we were probably an offensive sight to say the least.
I thought of bailing. Then I thought of Monica. Yelling.
“Can’t this boat go any fucking faster?” I said.
That night we docked and made camp close to the boat. We
were in an area very far off the beaten path and there was no sign
of life aside from all of the eyes of the jungle watching us from
everywhere in the pitch black.
The stars were bright and I sat there drawing out shapes of
severed heads to the patterns of constellations while mosquitoes
the size of rats dive-bombed the screen top of my tent.
At some point I fell asleep into a darkness that was so deep I
thought I’d never awake.
But then I did.
23
I AWOKE AND there was light. Light, all around me. A gray-blue
blanket of foggy light and the sounds of birds off in the distance of
treetops puncturing the roof of the sky.
As I shook myself to a sitting up position and fumbled through
the opening of the tent, I was shocked at what I was seeing –
nothing but jungle!
I was all alone!
“Alvaro!!!” I screamed out. But he was gone.
Everything was eerily quiet. Like we had never even camped
there. But I wasn’t dreaming and I didn’t know if this was some
sick joke. I looked around to see what was going on. Faint traces
of evidence suggested they had left on foot. But I also thought I
saw other sets of strange footprints leading in various directions.
Suddenly I heard a sound. Leaves rustling, sticks cracking. I was
sure that somebody was walking up from behind me and I turned.
There was nobody there. I turned again. Something was there.
But what?
Too late. Out of nowhere something smashed into my head.
I was out. Cold. Asleep. Darkness.

I AWOKE TO more darkness. It was night time. The whole day I


had slept and my head was hurting. I still didn’t know exactly
what had happened and what was going on, nor where I was, but
what was for certain was that I wasn’t going anywhere. My hands
were tied behind my back to a large stake that was anchored deep

24
into the ground. I pulled up as my wrists felt like they might come
apart at the joints.
From the darkness, suddenly there was light. And chanting. A
fire was now blazing off in the distance. Not too far but behind
some trees and bushes. And there were people.
They were Tribal warriors and they began to dance around the
fire.
They were savages.
They looked similar to Jivaro but wore none of the colorful
feathers. And there was also something distinctly different that I
was noticing. Something very different, so different that I almost
couldn’t believe my eyes.
Their heads! They had none!
Where there shoulders met the dark, there was nothing.
But where was the singing and chanting coming from? For a few
moments I was sure they had black paint on their faces to conceal
themselves from the neck up.
But no, I was sure of what I was looking at. Headless men and
women singing and dancing around a fire with spears and clubs.
For not having heads they were really hollering and there was a
drum beating and as little as I knew about these people and their
heads and whatever they were up to, I knew one thing. This was a
war dance, those were war cries, and they were on some sort of a
war path.
Better those other savages than me!
I watched on as the dancing slowed down and they began to
take turns visiting the fire to drink some sort of brewing soup
from a boiling pot hanging over the fire.

25
They picked up the spoons and poured the goop into the hole of
where their neck met their shoulders. It was bizarre.
Shuffling around I tried my hands again but it was entirely
useless. The knots were too tight.
It wasn’t long before the singing and chanting stopped and they
were filing into some sort of orderly line to run off into the jungle.
Most likely to attack their enemies.
Thank god I was still alive!
But what about their heads? They would be back, I was sure of
it.
“No,” I thought, “You’re imagining all of this David,” and I was
breathing heavy, trying to figure it all out.
How did it all go so wrong!?
“You greedy bitch!” I cursed Monica. These savages must have
been the spirits of those looking for their heads.
Go find Monica! I yelled out.
And here I was at that moment where you either decide to live
or die. Now was my chance.
I wanted to keep my head and that was that.
I wriggled and I writhed in pain and I pulled. It hurt. I felt like
my wrists were tearing off. Then I pulled some more.
Not giving up really paid off. The knot, after pulling and
grunting and slicing up my arms, eventually came loose and in
some cry of agony - I was now free!
I stood up with my fists clenched ready to pummel anything
without a head.
I moved forward ready to head for the hills in a sprint at full
force.
But I was hungry. Starving in fact.
26
And there was the soup. I needed energy for the trek. It was still
brewing with warm bubbles boiling over the pot edges above the
little fire. It was orange and thick and reminded me a of a good
tikka masala sauce.
Nobody was around. I snuck over to the fire and I reached for
the spoon.
It was salty. Sort of fishy tasting at first. Then it started to taste
sweet, and sort of…. spicy. I took down another gulp. Then
another. And some more.
Sifting through the chunky bits I noticed a finger and the
projectile vomit followed in moments.
Looking around, my eyes were wide and I was ready to run like
hell. After a burp I wiped the remaining sauce off of my face and I
looked up at the stars to get a bearing of which direction to head
in.

THAT NIGHT I ran and I ran. I ran through swamps and through
bushes that were so dense, my clothing was completely gone by
the following morning. Luck still on my side, by the next
afternoon I was back somewhere down river and on to making a
raft out of sticks and logs.
By that night I was picked up by a very different group of Jivaro
in a canoe, traders headed down river, and believe it or not, they
went the extra mile to save my life. I’ll never forget their kindness.
They could have taken my head and shrunk-it right down into an
inflated condom, but nope. They took me down to the next port
and before I knew it I was in a hospital back in Chimbote.

27
I was in and out of consciousness during the trip back down
river, although I remember them talking. From what I could make
out, it seemed like whoever this mysterious tribe of headless
people were, they even had the head hunting Jivaro afraid.

AFTER A FEW days in recovery, a couple of bandaged wrists and


two sore feet, I was back at my hotel. There was still no word from
Alvaro and company who had vanished without a trace. This also
meant there were no heads to return with. I didn’t know what to
do. I couldn’t go back empty handed. No way.
Monica had me more afraid than the head hunters.
Something else was also off.
Brushing my teeth that following morning was when I first
noticed it.
There was this strange ring around my neck.
It didn’t hurt. It wasn’t itchy like some kind of STD rash. It
wasn’t from the mosquitoes.
It was some kind of freak split in my skin, maybe from some
poisonous plant and it started throwing pus the moment my
finger ran over its bumpy surface.
“Shit!” I threw the toothbrush into the sink and it bounced up
against the mirror and fell below me onto the floor.
My luck had run out. I was looking pretty damn clean for what I
had been through and I was getting ready for my return flight
back to the states, but the ring looked awful. I was going to need
to wear a fucking turtle-neck to conceal it, it was so putrid. It
looked like somebody had chopped my head off and then stitched
it back on.
28
Worse yet, the ring began to grow. It spread several inches in
width within what seemed like another minute or two and its
circumference of a neck-choker had me all sweaty and falling
behind schedule for boarding the plane.
It was all happening so quickly.
Suddenly the phone rang. I didn’t answer.
It was Monica. I let it go to voicemail.
“Fuck! What am I going to do?” I was scared.
While I was looking back in the mirror is when I noticed what
was really going on.
First a little split. And then a tear. Then it was a gash, a huge
open wound and just as I rolled my eyes and leaned my head
back in a moment of ‘Oh god, what next?’.
It was when I was looking up at the ceiling that it happened.
My head fell right off my neck and onto the ground behind me!
My god! I gasped. My hands went up right away to figure out
where my head was.
All I could see was my leather briefcase below me next to the
bed and a dirty pile of bed sheets on the floor.
But I could feel what had happened! My head was gone! It was
somewhere there below me on the floor, looking up at my
headless body. And I was still alive!
I fell to my knees and started feeling around below me to find
my way. It was such an odd feeling. Picture trying to find a
basketball below you with a black bag over your face and the
basketball is talking at you and trying to get you to do what it
wants.
Finally, it was within reach. My fingers were shaking and I felt
like a whole pond of frogs were stuck in my throat. Like a whole
29
cocoon of butterflies were flying up out of my stomach. I was
afraid.
When I was finally holding my head in my hands, everything
was upside down.
Soon it was all right side up again and I was feeling around my
neck where the separation was. I couldn’t believe this was
happening!
I could see it all in the mirror in front of me. The separation was
boiling and bubbling and then fuming to a dull fester, quickly
moving into the appearance of a clean slice like I had just bumped
heads with a giant guillotine.
This helped me see how to realign it and my head was soon
back where it belonged where it met my neck with a suction
sound and there was a bright light and everything went fuzzy.
Like when you take a big hit of nitrous off a can of whip cream.
“Impossible!” I yelled out.
I should be dead! I thought to myself.
But I wasn’t.
I had literally just lost my head and then found it again, back on
my shoulders.
There was no time for me to reexamine the situation and before I
had a minute to question what was going on I was back on auto
pilot.
My feet were moving, my bag was in my hand. I remembered
my toothbrush on the bathroom floor and I shrugged.
The door was closing behind me.
I was still in shock. Still in denial. I checked my watch.
I was running a few minutes late and in jeopardy of missing my
flight.
30
Out in the hallway there was another mirror. I had to stop for a
moment to check again. Just to make sure.
The ring was still there but my head was doing fine and it sat
securely where the ring looked little more then an old scar.

ON THE AIRPLANE I kept my shoulders high and I hid behind a


magazine the entire time. Toward the end of the flight a nosey
little brat behind me started poking me in the back of the head
and trying to tell his mother that I was zombie.
“That’s ridiculous Johnny! Leave that man alone and go back to
sleep!”
“Yeah, Johnny..” I said, turning around with my head in my
hand, “Go back to sleep or I’m going to take your head as well!”
It had come off in a light tug and I was fifty-fifty on believing it
could be fixed again.
The little kids eyes went so wide that the blood vessels in his
forehead looked like raspberry patches and strips of fruit-roll up
and then he fainted himself into his little nap.
I looked around to make sure nobody saw it. Safe and sound,
everything was quiet again on the plane and the suction noise of
my neck was a great reminder of my new power.
It was so easy! All I had to do was pull on it gently and it came
right off. How cool this was!
But how? How could this be possible and how had it happened?
And then I remembered.
The brewing pot of soup. That was it.

31
There must have been some special alkaloids and tannins in
there that produced this effect on human flesh. But how had the
tribe known about it?
They must have evolved after years of the beheadings by the
neighboring Jivaro. Evolved in tandem with whatever was in that
soup, like, as nature has proven: life always finds a way, a
solution.
Their solution was that strange serum brewing in that pot. Fishy
it tasted and I could still remember the flavor of its distinctive
spice. Not too unlike..

MY GOD! MONICA cried, “I have to have it!”


She was wet from head toe, practically jumping on my lap to
undo my belt and pay my stiff finder’s fee.
“Wai, wai, wait a minute here Monica!” I exclaimed, “It’s mine!
You can’t have my head!”
I was soon fixing my head back on my shoulders and running
my fingers through my uncombed hair to make sure it was still on
proper.
Then I stood up and let her know where I was going with all of
this:
I was going everywhere I wanted and she had to comply.
It was a great feeling. She had nothing to hold over my head
anymore and I had everything to hold over hers.
“How much?” she stood up and followed.
“How much for what?” I asked, checking the ring around my
neck in a reflection on the glass table as I felt around the perimeter
of my handsome form.
32
“I want it David. Damnit!” she stomped her foot on the ground.
“Jeez Monica. Calm down.”
I couldn’t help but play with my power and her tone had me
wondering if she was headed for a full-on temper tantrum if I
didn’t stop teasing her with what I had: The king of all heads.
Suddenly she backed off. It was working. She was cowering
behind her desk and I think I even noticed a tear in the corner of
her eye. Soon she was on all fours. Crawling across the floor and
into my lap.
Sucking away she had me hard in an instant and I was just
getting comfortable when I opened my eyes to her crawling up
my chest to try and tug on my face.
“Noooooooouuu!” I pushed her off and stood up. She had
ruined my moment.
Sitting there on the floor Monica began to sob. She started
apologizing and I watched the make up smearing away from her
pretty face revealing a devil of a little lady all busted up about not
getting what she wanted.
What was I supposed to do? I wasn’t just going to give her my
head.
So I did what all real men do in situations like these.
I moved on.
The door shut behind me and I could still hear a few sobs back
there in the past. For a moment it seemed as if salty sweet water
was trickling into a puddle from under the crack below the door.

TIME WENT ON. I got more and more use to my strange new
power of removing my own head.
33
You have no idea what the world looks like when your head is
in other places. You suddenly see all the traps and tricks, the
poisoned food and the deep insanity of people who drive miles to
buy a pack of cigarettes that were manufactured to kill and rob
them. It’s the rest of the body that looks different, especially the
fingers and all the money games and counting, you suddenly
notice it all when your head is at the ends of your hands. You can
see how little people can actually reach and how they have to use
others and how worthless heads really are. I can’t say the world
looks any better. In fact it’s much, much worse.
But I got used to it.
It was a great party gag. People all over shit their drawers when
I removed my head from my shoulders and I always had a great
excuse when finished about how it was just an illusion.
And, yes, they actually believed me. Most of them did anyway, I
think. A couple people passed out, thank god there were no
lawsuits. Yeah it got me out of trouble a few times but there were
downsides also.
I stumbled over things often as there was a slight disconnect in
my coordination.
And occasionally my head would come off when I was asleep,
rolling off the bed, and I’d wake up in the morning to a dry gasp,
choking on my absence of saliva with bruises all over my cheeks
that weren’t so easy to explain away.
Once I even misplaced my head after falling asleep in a movie
theater drunk off half a bottle of bourbon. Running around trying
to find your head when you’re drunk isn’t the most pleasant
experience in the world.

34
There was one great thing about it that I soon discovered, not
too long after the last time I had seen Monica. And I certainly
didn’t need her services any more when I discovered the ease of
my other new talent.
The movie was playing and the audience was hypnotized to the
bad dialogue and cheesy special effects. Taking my head off, I
slowly unzipped my pants. I just couldn’t wait.
Soon enough I was at it again. Swallowing it down. It was so
easy to pretend that my head wasn’t me.
Sucking your own dick is a strange sensation like playing two
roles at once. The sensation from both sides is like a whole new
type of heaven to enter into. My fingers running through my hair,
sometimes I’d even try to pretend my body was a woman and
things often got confusing, but in the end it saved me thousands
of dollars in prostitutes and nearly as much in the band-aid fees
and creams and elixirs for the venereal disease soars.
A slight tug on my ears, and I’d focused all of my attention on
my member and before I knew it I was ejaculating. High up
towards the ceiling.
“Ohhhhhh ! Uhhhhhhhh!” I yelled out with a mouth full of
myself.
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!! I heard some of the movie
goers call back.
That night when I got home there was a message from Monica
on my machine. And another message after it.
All the time, she kept calling me. She wouldn’t take the hint and
leave me alone.
I kicked my shoes off and took my head off and held it in my
lap.
35
My head sat looking up at my body and my body sat looking
down at my head.
Wow this was great.
I thought a bit about how the world looks when you learn to
forget your head. You begin to watch your hands, what they’re
doing. What everybody’s hands are doing. Their faces are often
doing the opposite. Imagine everyone with no heads. Hands
talking in place of them. You start to recognize the difference
between what people are saying and what people are actually
doing. Very little, often. As little as they possibly can, trying to get
back the most. Sometimes I even wonder why we need our heads.
For eating pussy, sucking dick, obviously. Count your self
destructive tendencies on your fingers, cigarettes in hands where
they can’t hold onto the glasses of alcohol handed to them to get
them closer to a finger on the trigger of a gun. Bad habits often
start at the ends of fingers. No other disgusting animals in the
world behave like us.
So much to think about it, it felt like my thinking was coming
from all around me.
Laying back in my chair, it was comfortable thinking there in
my lap.
I was smiling.
And I knew better.

I MUST HAVE fallen asleep at some point and I don’t know when
it was but I had made the huge mistake of not locking the door.
She must have tip-toed in and she must have been planning it
out for some time.
36
It all happened fast. She threw a bag over my head so that when
I woke up I couldn’t see. The rest was simple. She tied me up.
Maybe she put drugs in my neck, something had me fast asleep
for such a length of time that I lost count of it.
What didn’t make sense was how she moved me. She must have
had help. But who?
I awoke in a dark room without my head. My head was still in a
bag somewhere.
I felt around the floor. It was cold. I felt some pipes. I could feel
some wires as well. And boxes. I knew this place!
This was Monica’s boiler room, just off her kitchen in her shabby
apartment around the block from her office. I knew it, I had been
in there before. This was where she kept her old prosthetic limb
collection which she had spent years amassing before being
turned on to the heads. I shivered at the thought of the
appendages all around me.
I felt around for the door and a box of limbs came down on my
body as I stumbled over some hooked feet. Feeling around some
more I knew which direction to head in. Towards the door. I
stumbled again immediately and fell to the floor twisting my
ankle into a position that brought me to a deep scream.
Suddenly the bag came off my head in one fail swoop of a hard
swipe. Like a piece of tape pulled off of my mouth, it left me a
rug-burn where I was spitting out hairs and lint.
“I’ve got you now!” she yelled into my face and her breath was
horrid. Like she hadn’t brushed in days. And she wasn’t wearing
any makeup.
I had never seen Monica before without her makeup on and the
opposite of how some women are still hot without the eye shadow
37
and the lip smear, Monica was somehow strangely much, much
more unattractive.
“Please Monica!” I pleaded, “Don’t do this to me! I’ll get you
more heads, I promise!”
I was close to tears but part of it was also an act. On the other
side I was standing back up on my feet and feeling around for the
door. Like patting your head while rubbing your stomach is such
a difficult trick to turn, multitasking on this level is something
else.
“As many as you want! I swear it by god!”
In my mind I kept telling myself that I was doing great.
“Oh no you won’t!” she scolded me, “I’ve got the head that I
want!” She started cackling and I couldn’t help but let the real
crying commence. I was hurt. I couldn’t believe what she was
doing.
But I wasn’t giving up yet! Suddenly I found the door and felt
around for the doorknob.
“Shit! It’s locked!”
“What?” she sort of mocked me in her low voice.
On the other side I started pounding on the door. Over and
over.
Useless.
It was metal and it was locked. I slid down the door and fell to
the ground.
“What are you doing over there David!?” She yelled into my
face like I wasn’t my head and my body was wearing the ears.
Like I was a fucking microphone.

38
Being kidnapped by a tribe of headless savages was one thing.
Being kidnapped by a raving whore of a lunatic with a perverse
desire for collecting the heads of men was something else.
I just had to get away.
But I couldn’t.
Monica had what she wanted and I was now her slave.
She put me right to use.
Her blouse came down and then her underwear. When she put
my head between her thighs the smell took me into a sneeze. It
was something foul, as if she hadn’t showered in a week.
“Open it David!” she ordered me.
“Mnnnnnnnohhh,” I refused to budge.
“Opennnn it!” she commanded again, pinching and pulling my
ears.
“Ok! Ok! Not my ears!” I finally opened my mouth to take in a
much needed breath and in the same movement I was thrust into
licking and eating and slurping and slopping and rubbing my
nose in her foul stench.
For hours this went on.
Somewhere up above she moaned and she groaned and for a
little while I got used to it. Somewhere on the other side I was
slightly erect, but there was nothing really I could do. I was still
hoping, expecting that when this was through she would be
apologizing and putting me back together again into a whole
person.
But no such luck. The savage bitch had other plans.

39
TIME WENT ON. Back there in Monica’s boiler room she kept my
poor, aching body locked up behind the big metal door. Most of
the time, wherever she went, I went with her in my little leather
briefcase, tape over my mouth when I got mean.
At night she kept me up in the display case with the other
mokomokai and tzantza heads, and this, this is what bothered me
most of all.
Sleeping next to severed heads is something of an impossibility
and they smelled worse then her hairy hole.
I’ll tell you what, I grew to have a lot of respect for Walt Disney
up there. Most night I dreamed in cartoons of all the terror coming
from the minds of so many people out there in our world, all of
the misinformation. You have no idea how wrong the heads of
our species are. And the rest of them also, I guess.
I feel like I have some kind of good idea of it now.
Some nights I think I was hallucinating so badly from the lack
of water that the other heads would taunt me and tease me. Worse
than she did.
Sometimes she’d leave me with a straw and a bowl of water, just
a few inches out of reach, and I’d wiggle my ears off trying to
reach the bowl before the straw dropped and the other heads
would laugh.
A little bit of relief came most nights when Monica returned
home to put food in my neck. She’d open the door and I’d crawl
across the floor to feed.
It was demeaning and disrespectful.
More so when she got me the dog dish.
During the day, on a full stomach and nowhere to take a shit, I’d
often just shit in my pants. I could feel it happening, warm, not
40
fun. But because there wasn’t any smell on my end, it wasn’t
unbearable.
But being in that glass display case!
“You fucking bitch! At least let me sleep on your pillow!” I’d
scream at her.
“Hush or it’s the tape again!” she’d yell back.
Day after day she forced me to give her head. I ate and I ate and
I ate. Over and over. Everywhere she brought me. Into the ladies
room, I’d eat. During trips in the car, I’d eat.
No choice but to do what I was told.
Giving Monica head all the time wasn’t as pretty as it might
sound. She refused to shave and most days she didn’t even wash
first. And I would swear she wiped back to front. I think she
might have even been doing this on purpose.
No return of the favors. My dick was so far away, even with my
hands free while locked up in her boiler room, jerking off just
wasn’t the same from a distance. Like cell phone connections with
a low level of bars, I was just a little too far away to enjoy it.
For months this went on. I was so sick of eating this lady’s pussy
I just didn’t know what to do.
Many a times I thought of swallowing my tongue and ending it
all for good.
But I was a survivor and had survived worse than this!
I would make it! Yes!
Patience David, I told myself. Your time will come.

41
IT WAS WHEN Salvador, my close friend, walked through her
office door with a nervous sweating pile running down his cheek
that things started to make some sense.
I was finally putting two and two together about several
different things that had happened when I wasn’t around.
From up in the case, I called down to him, “Ehhhhhh!!! Salli!!!
Get me out of here!”
“My god!” he cried out when he saw me. His eyes were popping
out of his face and he smiled.
“Yeah it’s me!” I assured him, “She’s evil Sal! Don’t trust her!”
You shush, you! she called up, and in another moment my eyes
were wide also.
I couldn’t believe how Sal was reacting.
“So that’s it?” he turned to her with his hands on his hips, “How
much do you want for it?” He was close to a beg.
“It’s not for sale!” she laughed back.
“My god!” I yelled at them both, ”You traitors! Is that all I am to
you!?!? A fucking head??”
I looked over at Sal and then I rolled my eyes. I knew what was
going on here. He was the one who had helped her move my
body. Who knows what else he was up to.
“You traitor!” I yelled at him and then I thought I saw him lick
his lips.
Salvador, Don’t do it. Don’t you get any funny ideas Salli! I
screamed at him but without my body my voice was high and
squeaky.
“What are you gonna do about it you little head, you?”
They both laughed and ridiculed me. Like I wasn’t a person any
more, just a random head.
42
“You little head!” Monica walked over to me and pinched my
cheek and I screamed.
“Stop it you savage cunt!” I yelled, but they both just kept on
laughing. It was horrible.
The other heads in the case seemed to back them up in a chorus
of chanting.
You’re just a head! You’re just a head!
And perhaps I was, but this head had other plans.

ALL NIGHT LONG I had been plotting and planning and timing
my game. For weeks now the plan was in the making but today I
was ready to make my move.
A week or so earlier my body had found a small hairpin on the
floor after days of feeling around for a solution.
And there it was: a little metal piece of wire bent into angles fit
for picking a lock. I began to teach myself how to pick the lock
and think with my hands and within days I could make it from
my comfortable seat in the corner on a box of old arms, to the
door, in several seconds, without falling over.
My hands had become like a second pair of eyes and I could see
in the darkness. The whole room was lit up in my head through
the sensation of touch that I had mastered through training my
mind to follow my fingers. I could pick that lock in seven seconds
flat.
My memories of her place and the route into her office were as
close to down pat as I could get them.
I had spent night after night meditating for this moment. It was
here.
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My fingers were seeing the light and the hairpin fell to the floor
below me.
On the other side, the door was now open and I was running
through Monica’s apartment toward her front door.
A glass or something heavy fell and broke, I could feel
something broken into pieces below my feet. I kept moving.
“Can we put a pair of antlers on him? I have a perfect wooden
plaque that would bring out his features so nicely,” Salvador
urged Monica to take to his sense of fashion.
“No way!” she disagreed, “He’s coming to the Opera with me
tomorrow.”
Soon they were disagreeing some more. Arguing and then
bickering. Bickering and then scuffling.
All over my fucking head!
The timing was perfect. Almost there, I was still running,
bumping into things.
I thought I felt somebody’s breasts on the other side as I patted
them, empathetically, with a hand-gesture of my sincerest
apology and I am quite sure that at least one person, if not several,
saw me that day: a man without a head running his ass off down
the streets in broad daylight.
But this was Slave Rowe and here I imagined stranger things
had happened.
Soon I was at the door to her office.
I knew this was the right one. A short hallway and then into her
office, I wouldn’t be stopped.
I kicked the door down in one ass whooping blow.

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Monica and Sal broke apart from their quarrel and stared at me.
I lunged forward straight toward Monica. My arms were stretched
out in front of me.
Almost immediately, we were on the floor.
Monica was straddled under my legs below me. My hands were
around her neck. I squeezed.
From up in the case I watched some parts of it and I felt others.
My eyes were often closed and my eyebrows were raised as I
worked my magic like a yogan master leaving his body to wreak
havoc on his enemies, demonic, vengeful and morbidly pissed off.
We were certainly all headed toward a clash of endings.
Salvador was in shock, uncertain whether to hightail it out of
there or help her out.
Soon he was trying to pull me off but it was useless. My body
was hard as nails. My soul was a hunk of coal.
“Thhhhhe heeaddddd!” she hissed out at him, “Getttt thhhheeee
headdddd!!”
By the time Sal made it to the case she was out. Her eyes were
still open and she wore a sick smile on her ugly face.
She was certainly dead. No air coming in. No air going out.
I was soon up and on my legs, flying headless-first at Sal like
there was a cape and a gust of wind behind me.
I tackled my old friend to the ground. Over and over and over
again I hit the traitor with everything that I had.
There was little left for trophies when I was finished.

THE DOOR CLOSED to a soft click behind me. I walked down the
stairs with my briefcase below me dangling at my side and at the
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end of the hallway I dropped a lit match into the puddle of
gasoline leading back to the office.
From a distance I watched the flames engulf the building and
the fire trucks arrive just a tad bit late to save anybody’s day.
Soon they were carrying out charred corpse on stretchers below
stiff white blankets.
A passerby on the street stopped to talk to me.
“I heard those people were collecting human heads,” she said to
me, “How twisted. Serves them right.”
Yeah, I agreed. I heard that also.
I was smiling.
From that day forward, when somebody called to ask me to
track down something rare and bizarre for them, I was officially
retired.
Things never get easy though.
I still stumble over things a lot. Even when my head is secure. I
lost my head a few times under the bed, in the closet, in the park,
in somebody’s fridge, but never again have I lost it over another
woman.
Thanks Monica.
Last I looked she was still smiling.

© Will McCoy 2015

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