The Wall of Sleep

By D. G. Harris

"Look here, my good man, you must have a prescription for the drug you seek," said the pharmacist, looking smug from the god power side of his counter.

Mr. Tutu handed him a piece of paper. It was all legitimate and on the level, which is something the pharmacist found to be annoying. You see, he took a great pleasure in rooting out the fakes, especially concerning these types of drugs. His cock was useless, and he never got laid, so this was indeed the only form of control he had in his shitty life. Everybody had to have something. Most had very little, but at least he had this.

Mr. Tutu, however, found any hope at all to come in the form of a little gray pill.

"And this was issued by a... let's see.... Dr. Form?"

"Yes. He is my psychiatrist," said Mr. Tutu.

"Let's see.... 1000 milligrams of triptodoptomine. This is a very powerful psychotrapazoid. Did he explain to you about the use of this type of inhibitor?"

"Yes. Some."

The pharmacist looked over the customer with utter distaste that he did not try to hide. He figured that Mr. Tutu must have had a pretty fucked up and miserable life. He liked when others had a fucked up and miserably life. It made him feel all the more powerful, especially in the line of work that he was in. He did feel like god, in a way, and the uselessness of his cock just didn't matter.

The pharmacist went into the storage room to fill the order. Shortly he returned with the pills. "Now, I will tell you exactly how these are to be taken, and you will follow my instructions most implicitly. Yes?"


"These are used to treat extreme social anxiety disorder, and nothing more. Let us say you are at a business meeting, and you must stand and give a presentation, and upon its completion, you realize it was a terrible fiasco. Just dismal. You take one of the pills, just one, immediately after the ordeal, when it is still fresh in your brain, and you will nearly instantaneously forget the whole mishap, as if it never happened. This will keep your anxieties from layering over one another, and allow you to become a functioning member of society, in time. You must never take more than three of these in any 24 hour period, and you must never take them with alcohol. This could lead to psychosis"

"I see."

"Do you have your disability insurance forms filled out?"

Mr. Tutu handed him a stack of papers stapled together, and was handed over the pills in return. The pharmacist shook his head as the other turned and walked out the front door. He believed that most people were hideous and crazy, that he was somehow better. The fact was that most folks were hideous and crazy one way or another, but he was no better, nor different than anyone else. Only more aggressively stupid about it.

Mr. Tutu waited at the bus stop only a short while, until the 287 came by to take him home.

His home was a converted YMCA building, a slum really, but most folks lived either at his level or below, although most times he failed to realize it. He showered away the dirt of the poor, which was quite a long wash. And he went on out into the night.

He approached a cafe. Dirt and stench of the city came up and in the nostrils. Some like this- mostly drinkers and writers, the latter almost always being the former. Mr. Tutu was just used to it. He stepped off the curb to cross the street from the bus stop. A police cruiser came hard around the corner, very nearly running him down. A blue back jumped from the car. "Say, what do you think you're doing there, buddy?!" yelled the blue.

"Um, just crossing the street, officer."

He pulled out his ticket book. "Well, what you just did is an illegal offense against the state. You must always cross in the cross walk."

"I'm most sorry, but I believe I was in the cross walk......"

The cop placed a finger in Mr. Tutu's chest. "You trying to tell me my job?"

"Well. no...."

"You started across the street a few inches out of the lines. That's as good as a block. The law is the law, you know."

Mr. Tutu sighed. "I know...."

"You gettin' smart with me boy?"

"No sir."

"You got any I.D.?"

"I do not carry my wallet, for it is too big to fit in my pocket. I lose it when I take it from my dresser drawer."

"Boy, I don't care none for your dresser drawer. Don't you realize that I can take you in just for not having the proper I.D.?"

"I'm sorry."

"Well, I'm gonna let you get away with it this time. But don't let me see you on the street again without it. I won't be nearly so kind the next time."

"Yes, officer."

Blue wrote up his ticket, a hundred dollar ransom to the state. Tore it off his pad and stuffed it in Mr. Tutu's shirt pocket with a smirk.


"Well, what, sir?"

"Ain't you gonna thank me for my kindness. Don't you realize what I've done for you?"

"Thank you officer. Thank you for understanding and not taking me to the station."

"You're most welcome."

The cop car rolled away, a lion preying upon the lambs of the city.

Mr. Tutu was sweating. Was feeling nervous. A storm of emotion coming on. He reached into his trouser pocket, removed a pill from the bottle, got the spit all worked up in his mouth and swallowed it down.

The evening had started anew.

He entered the cafe. Roaches scurried. Rats laughed, knowing they had avoided the menu, being a part of it, at least for the evening.

"Here he is again," said the owner, who was also the cook, therefore he could get away with his crappy meals without ending up in the unemployed line with the other bums. "Look at him, with his long sleeve shirt, clean pants. Thinks he's hot shit. Comes here only 'cause he thinks he's better than us." He spoke to the Bohemian bus boy, who disdained drugs of all kinds, and was saving himself for marriage. Intelligent kid, despite these flagrant errors in judgment.

"I dunno, man," said the bus boy. "Seems like a nice guy to me. He don't bother nobody. Seems kinda nervous though."

"I say he's an asshole, and that's that." And he went back to cooking up some shit.

"Oh, there's an asshole here tonight," uttered the bus boy to himself only. "But it ain't him."

"The usual?" asked the b-boy.

"Yes," answered Mr. Tutu.

He sat quietly reading the paper, until his dinner came. A bowl of chili and cheese and a side of toast. He took one bite, cold as a fucking slab of ice.

"Um, excuse me, but this is very cold. Could you heat it up for me a bit?"

"Sure thing, man."

The boy went back to the kitchen. Soon, the great heaving slob of a man that was boss moved toward Mr. Tutu. "What's going on here? How dare you send my wonderful foodstuffs back! I slave away for a pauper's wages for you people! And this is the thanks?!"

"It was just cold, that's all..."

He placed the plate in front of the customer. "You will eat what I give you, and you will like it!"

Mr. Tutu took a bite and grimaced.

"You think you're superior because you got on a goddamned long sleeve shirt on! Well, I've had enough! Get out, and don't show your face in here again!"

Mr. Tutu took out a few bills and laid them on the table, which were promptly picked up and flung back in his face.

Out on the street he sat at a bus bench. He felt like killing people- crouched in a church bell tower with a high-powered rifle. Damn, he could see the heads splatter and blood pour over the concrete. He popped another capsule and swallowed it down.

He decided he was hungry, moved to a place called the Dead Hungry Fish, where I man can have a greasy steak and whiskey from a jug.

Sat at a table near the bar. There was quite a crowd congregating. Things were working toward a frenzy.

He flagged down a beer waitress. "There are many people here tonight."

"It's ladies night. Having a band."

The steak went down. The band kicked it in about 9:00, and there were more women he'd seen at one place in quite a long time. Some were lovely, some not, but he had little experience enough to really tell with any authority.

The druggist told not to take drink with the medication, but he figured one would be of little consequence.

"Can I have a beer please?" he asked the tender.

"Beer taps busted. All we got is hard liquor."

"One dry Martini, please."

"Man, we don't serve that shit here. We got whiskey."

".........All right."

He received a brown ceramic jug. It was not so very long before he began to sway with the crowd. An older red head sat with a blond at the bar. He had absolutely no choice but to work it.

"You ladies come here often?"

"Who wants to know?" asked the red head.


"Somebody who?"

"Just somebody."

"Would that be somebody attractive, or a weasel not unlike yourself?" said the blonde, who cackled hideously.

"That's awful of you," said the red head. "To say such a thing to this fine man."

Mr. Tutu beamed. She just might be the most beautiful woman in the world. Although most real men would find this not to be the case.

The red took a piece of paper, scribbled upon it, and stuffed it in his shirt pocket.

"This is a phone number."

"Really!" said the blond in disbelief.

"Yeah. It's suicide prevention. Not for him, but for anyone sad enough to get so terribly drunk that she should wake up in the morning seeing his scary face!"

A duo twittering shrill cackle rose up above the music. People stared. Mr. Tutu turned pink in mortification. He staggered over to the restroom, splashed his face at the sink. In the mirror he witnessed a shrunken shrew of a man, bent and tired. He swallowed several more capsules.

A man soon came at his side. Just showed up. He was old and weathered, had an eye patch and gray sideways teeth, and huge pores with hairs poking from them. He appeared to be nearly see through. "They mock you," said the old yang. "Can you not hear the laughter? You are but a joke to them."

Mr. Tutu stared at him. He backed away. Old yang said these things- "Hear my words. They will kill you, given the chance. These people are blood letters, cannibals. They are hungry for the slaughter."

"What can I do?" whined Mr. Tutu.

"There is only one thing to do. Kill them first."

"But how?"

"Use your fists. Use your hands. A broken beer mug. You know how to do it."

"I don't know how."

"Then just listen to me, prick."

Mr. Tutu stepped back to the bar. "Hit them first," said an unseen voice come down from the air. Those horrible bitches cackled as he went by. "Their sounds are magic. It is the first step towards your defeat. They will feed of your lifeless body if you let them."

Mr. Tutu approached their table. He struck the blonde hard to the side of her head. Then gut punched the red. They both lay on the ground, as he kicked them to silence. The bar tender leapt across the bar. Mr. Tutu caught him under the chin with a nearly empty pitcher of beer. One giant bouncer slammed his skull with a great slamming fist. But he felt nothing as he leapt through the front door.

Out on the street he found a bus bench and flipped it over. A police cruiser rolled by and he tossed a trashcan in the air. He gave that cruiser the bird good. The driver stared in disbelief, so long, that he didn't even notice the pick-up that he was about to head-on. He realized just in time to swerve into a light post. Well, from one to the other.

The sign of the cafe glowed into the night. Mr. Tutu burst through the door. "Give me food! Good food! I must have sustenance!"

"Oh, you again. I thought I told you never to bring your sorry ass in here again! Didn't I tell you that?!"

Mr. Tutu shot that fucker good. Dropped him like an ugly hooker. He raised up a chair high to finish the job. "Now wait a minute buddy," said the bus boy. "Don't do it. He may be an asshole, but he don't deserve this." Only one other customer was there. A young Goth gal with very short hair, cowered in a corner booth near the kitchen.

"I am all power! God and Jesus have nothing on me! I'll kill you all and eat your flesh!"

"Just put the chair down. There's nothing to be gained by this....."

Mr. Tutu stepped toward the bus boy, shaking the chair. "You're with them! You want to plant your evil larvae on my body to feast come spring!...."

"You're drunk. A good sleep is all you need. I've always liked you. Always did I think you better than the rest. You don't want to hurt me."

Mr. tutu lowered the chair, placing it upon the tiled floor. He grabbed both sides of his head and shook it left and right. He was shrieking to be left alone, demanding voices to stop their voicing.

The front door burst open. Blues poured in, shooters drawn. Mr. Tutu clutched the girl from the booth and yanked her into the kitchen. She screamed, as shots tore up the room behind them. He dragged her through the back door and into alley night.

"Don't kill me!" she cried. "Please!" Then slammed him to the gut. Normally a good blow, got her out of many a jam, but didn't work this time. Nope.

He pulled her down to the marina, about two blocks away, took her down to the docks. He checked four gates and found them to be locked. The fifth had been left ajar and they went on through. Most were fair sized sailboats. At the end was a huge double master with a small wooden rowboat roped to the stern. He forced her down into the skiff, then stepped in himself, untied the rope and moved silently into the harbor, with him at the oars.

She always figured her time would come soon enough, but not on the water. Was wishing right then she'd taking those swimming lessons when she was a kid. But she hadn't. Now she was screwed 7 ways to Sunday. Mr. Tutu quit very near a harbor buoy. He let the oars slide into the sea, lay back, eyes locked on stars.

"I am tired," he said. "I just wanna sleep." The harbor buoy was clanging and banging.

"What are you going to do with me?" asked the chick.


"I said, what will you do with me?"

Mr. Tutu began to rub his eyes. He started to weep slightly. "I just want to be left alone. I want the skulls to stop....."

"Skulls? What skulls?"

"What do you know of skulls?! You're not dead! Or maybe you are. Maybe you are just like the rest, who need the blood vessels and flesh and organs of the living to feed and sustain you in your evil plots!..."

He began to openly sob. The chick hesitated, then reached to him, gently to touch him upon the wrist. He flinched and winced. She touched him softly. "Hey, man, hey. I got some downers. I bet that's what you need. I got 'em right here. I always take 'em when I'm having a bad trip. It's what you need, man. I promise."

"You think I need your fucking drugs?! You think I'm high?! I ain't high! My flesh is not for you to take! You're the devil! Satan! I only want some respect! I spit on your skulls! I want to fuck you!!..." He suddenly shut his mouth and stopped his ravings. "I want to fuck you," he whispered. He moved toward her, plunging his tongue down her throat. She beat his shoulders as he ripped at her blouse and bra. He tore them open, starring at her sweaty tits, small and peach colored. He bit and licked and ravished them, as she screamed a bloody scream.

"I love you," he uttered. "You're the only one I've ever trusted. The only one who could understand." He squeezed tight, locking her arms at her sides. "Tomorrow, we go to Greece. We shall walk amongst the ruins of the Parthenon. Olives and red wine shall we take, and be married at the Oracle of Delphi. We will stay happy ever, and poems, laurel, and spray roses will be yours at the asking."

He became rigid, his breathing labored, his arms viced around, face pressed to her breast.

He awoke to the clanging buoy rocking beneath a new sun. He saw her bitten and bruised tits and mascara stained face, eyes floating in horror sockets, and that his arms clutched and tore to her flesh with terrible twisted fingers. But, the thing is, she found his terror to be far greater than even her own.

He wrenched himself free and flung himself to the back of the boat, nearly capsizing it, splashing the cold salt water to his face. "What has happened here?! Dearest god, what has happened?!"

She drew the shreds of shirt clothe over her bosom. "I am sorry! Oh, I am so sorry!" he shrieked. He rolled himself to a teeny ball, and said these things over and over again, and hitting himself, and scratching himself, crying agonized cries as if being eaten from within. Soon, a police boat pulled up close, and he was viciously yanked to her deck, batons brought against the rear of his head a number of times. She too was brought on deck. "Ma'am, are you o.k.? Do you need some medical attention?" He got a brief glimpse of youthful titty, and was thinking if he could only get her back to the station, it be nice to see 'em up close in the privacy of a quiet padded cell.

"No, I'm fine, really. I just wanna get back home."

"Are you sure? We have a nice facility back at the station."

She didn't notice his one eye resting on a flash of peachy areola. She watched her abductor, face down on the deck, hands and legs buckled together with stainless steel. "I'm sorry," he was mouthing, eyes closed down, blood seeping from tremoring lips.

"What will happen to him?"

"Him? Oh, he'll probably get death you'll be glad to know. States really cracking down on his kind these days. You won't have to worry about seeing him on the streets again you can bet on that, and your hard earned taxes wont go toward feeding and clothing the bastard either. It's a fine time we're living, ma'am. A time of real justice."

The boat began to move forward. "Why did he do it?" she asked. "He seems so...... sad."

The blue pulled out a plastic vial from an evidence bag in his pocket. "He had this on him. I've seen it before- a kind of medication for the criminally insane. He probably took it with other illegal substances. When that happens, someone usually dies. I wish they would quite trying to help these people who can't or don't want to be helped anyway, when we'd all be better off with them just removed from society in the first place, if you know what I mean."

He was still pulling on her tits with his eyes, but she caught him this time. He turned and went into the cabin for some doughnuts and maybe a shot of whiskey.

She stared out over the harbor. Gulls had begun to flock over the moving boat and a shark fin broke the water. She reached into her purse and brought forth a plastic vial. It was exactly like the one the officer had showed her, and she had been taking them for years herself. She was not criminally insane, and decided right then that she would never press charges. She would go see him at the jail. There was something in his eyes, in his face, and she knew, some how she knew, and didn't even know why, he would never gape at her areolas unless asked. And this was something that could be hard to find these days.

The End

Copyright © 2003 by D. G. Harris




Visit Aphelion's Lettercolumn and voice your opinion of this story.

Return to the Aphelion main page.