Girl Destroys the World Chapter 4

by Yoni Kirby about a year ago in fiction

A Dystopian Novel

Girl Destroys the World Chapter 4

But I never told you about our time in prison. So let me do that.

Jimmy was all full of these obsessions and loathings that had to do with me. He absolutely detested me, As if it was my fault we ended up in that place!

“Clarissa, it's clear,” he said. “Remember when we got to first know each other?” I did. “And it was good, right? Uh-huh? Yeah? You know?”

I knew.

“And didn't that mean anything to you?” he repeated.

“What?” I said. I was confused. Mean what? What should it mean? What does it mean? You tell me, Samantha. You tell me what all this shit means. I am invited over to his house. We smoke some weed downstairs. Everything is good. And then I leave with my family! I mean, goddamnit! Why is God so evil? Jimmy has to rail on how he is all hung up over me not calling him ever (like I ever did), and my not returning his calls, the horrible bitch that I am. Although I was too young to be a bitch at that time. Maybe just a cunt. But poor little Jimmy. He goes into the drug business, after that. He's a pusher. He be a pusher. El habla Espanol (He speaks Spanish). He's multicultural.

Ah, globalism. Globalismo, in the Spanish. I'm very educated, after all.

And a pussy. I mean, why didn't I give Jimmy a call? I suppose I'll never know.

So we parted ways, me and Jimmy. I continued on doing what I do best, and Jimmy started his own empire.

“I became a king, Clarissa,” he said, contently, like a fat cat with a cigar in his mouth. He leaned his back against the grimy wall and let it absorb the scum which had been festering there since G-d knows when. His back was probably full of the porous stuff by now. We'd been here for two whole hours.

Mostly, he'd been humming popular tunes over and over again while the other prisoners yelled at him to stop or asked him what song it was.

“Ever hear of Beethoven?” one prisoner asked.

Jimmy continued talking, then frowned.

“No, don't listen to him,” another prisoner said. He was a bearded Rabbi-type who looked like he hadn't eaten bread or water for two full days. “Want to hear a niggun?”

“My name is Jimmy,” he told the prisoner. “Nice to meet you. And this here,” and he pointed to me in the cell across from him, “is Clarissa.”

“Very nice to meet you,” the Rabbi-figure said. He let us keep talking.

“So anyway,” he said, “I became a king. And I reveled in my kingship. I was glorified in it. My honor was a garment for me; my enemies fell before me. Because my honor told the older thugs to do it. And they didn't know it was me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You see, Clarissa-pie,” he said with pointed acerbity, “I enacted this enterprise with the internet. Chat rooms, Myspace, anything you can name. I did it. I spread myself all over, made myself an entrepreneur. I was a creative shit. A creative little shit.”

“You are verifiably crazy.”

“So I am. Kill me.”

“No. I can’t. And even if I could, I’d go to hell and have to be with you.”

Jimmy stared back. “Ah! So you do like me! What a nice surprise!”

I eyed him. Didn’t what I say have the opposite connotation?

“Enough,” Jimmy waved his hand. “Let me proceed.”

“Fuck that,” I said. “You’re just wasting time. Just get to the part where you get arrested, for whatever… it was you were doing. And why I’m also suspected of aiding you in your latest ploy to take over the world.”

“Ah, resorting to clichés! This I like!” He was definitely getting annoying.

“Too much,” I said.

“Fine, fine. I’ll get to it. But first, do you want some prune juice?” He offered me something from his tray.

“No,” I said.

“Fine, be that way!” he said.

“Anyway… You listening?

They took me to prison first time in eighth grade. Juvie, they called it. In juvie, there were many different kinds of kids. Being a New-York Jew and all, and then a Los-Angeles Jew, I didn’t have much opportunity to branch out. I met people from all across the world. Among them: Swiss, Kurds, Mexicans, Americans, Iranians (well, Iranian Jews) and Circassians. And, bum da dum bum: Israelis! Of all stripe and color: blond Israelis, brown-haired, etc… I can tell you’re getting bored from all this cataloging, so I’m going to stop. Besides, you’ve seen them all anyway.”

“You’re a good storyteller. Surprised I said that, though.”

“You’ve always been sweet under your bristly skin, Clarissa-pie.”

“Fuck you. You’re the one who got me here. And I still don’t know why I’m here.”

Jimmy stood silenced (or rather, sat). After a minute or two, he whispered, “I’m sorry. Honest, Clarissa, it was just an error. There should be someone else in your cell.”

“5 minutes to lights out!” yelled a warden.

“Who?” I demanded.

Jimmy hesitated. “Look,” he said. “It was my idea to have our families move to Israel.”

“What?”

“I met some pretty cool Israelis in that L.A. jail,” he said. “We started a drug enterprise… spanning the globe. Along with the Pakistanis, Mexicans, and South Africans. You know, globalism. You know, Jews and Muslims work together pretty well when it comes to defeating the establishment. In fact, anyone who’s not American is like that. As long as you’re an outsider, then it’s okay, as I like to say!”

“So you started this… enterprise.” Fucking Jimmy. “And why didn’t you bring someone else’s family instead of mine? You could’ve brought anyone! Any one of your drug buddies!”

“Bedtime,” spat a guard. “No more talking.”

Jimmy leaned in closer once the guard had gone. “So I subliminally convinced my parents to go to Israel, Paradise of Drugs, so I could build up my empire. I did all that anyone would expect. You know, I bought them Israeli products and such, and when they asked, I said I found them on the cheap, or nonsense like that. Or a friend had given it to me (which was true in some cases—Israeli pickles stolen from the pantry of one of my drug buddies (stolen from his parentals). When my parentals came into contact with yours on the Sabbath, it was a simple matter of me inserting the topic of food, and watching them go off the rails! They move to Israel and take us with them.

“Unfortunately, you were a sad little footnote. I accidentally wrote your name on a government form, saying that you were my first contact in any case of emergency.”

“Accidentally?”

“Um, you were the only contact I had at the time, I had to put someone.”

I was really angry. Stewed, in fact. “Then wait a bit, till you meet one of your druggie friends!”

“Don’t call them that!” Jimmy snapped. “You might as well be insulting me.”

“I guess I am.”

Jimmy sighed. “When I get out of here, I’m getting me some nice Crackerjacks.”

The lights went out.

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