Alex St. Claire

Dear Alex,

It’s me again! Just wanted to update you on the menu for tonight and how to prepare it: Step 1) Retrieve a stainless-steel toenail spoon. Step 2) Use the spoon to remove the hurl-inducing toe jam clinging to all my toes. Step 3) Pair my toenail jam with your favorite imported pâté and Persian shallots dipping sauce. Bon Appétit YOU WRETCHED WENCH!!!

For the last 376 nights, I have had the pleasure of being Alex’s Foodie Consultant, giving her a fresh new recipe, right before my bedtime. All of them, of course, included some gruesome gooey discharge, debris, and excretion from my body. This was after she decided that she would relocate her upscale entertainment lounge to my REM. But not just mine. Ironically, a few of my neighbors in my trailer park started discussing their nightmares. The common executioner? Alex. In under a year, Alex went viral. And so did Gotti. Dr. Oslo Gotti opened 5 psychiatric practices and 2 highly exclusive respite centers, for sleep disorders, right on the 40 acres of land adjacent to my trailer park. Living on the streets, abusive relationships, and a brief stint with human trafficking had already prepared me to deal with Alex’s geriatric Freddy Krueger dream tactics. I looked forward to the 8-hour comedy session every night. And in the mornings, I would cuss myself out for not being able to hold my hands steady, as I poured bleach on my urine-soiled sheets, from laughing hysterically. The tribe of her insanity-driven patrons referred to her as the “Sadist Tsarina.” But to me, she was just another bastard in a long line of other bastards waiting to dominate my amygdala. A neurotransmitter bent on creating a multi-verse of past traumatic events, filled with gauntlets, goblins, sorcerers, and stones. After all, everything relies on a stone. 

Tonight, I decided to do something special for Alex. I would give her the best canvas to wield all of her evil, trickery, and fear into my soul. In my professional experience, the best canvas is a drunk one. After waiting for six weeks, Big House White Wine slowly limped up to my mud-paved driveway.

“Finally!” I yelled.

“Yup,” replied Lester.

“You gonna need a new cup?” I asked.

“Yup.”

Lester, the most reliable USPS mailman in all of Gaco, Georgia. The poor sap never said much, but never complained about his prosthetic leg or the fact that USPS kept his wages at $7.25 for the last fifteen years. 5 years old, with Type 1 diabetes and a gout amputation, Lester lived in an abandoned warehouse for eight months until he met Captain Royt Wexler, which worked at a Waffle House Kiosk at the Yucatan Trope Assisted Living Facility. Royt provided a haven for Lester and the residents kept their traps shut. The power of persuasion amplified the hush-hush movement at Yucatan, as senior citizens basked in Royt’s extra golden-fluffy pancakes, as well as, Lester’s humility to keep them happy by letting the gray-haired posse beat him at Yucatan’s UNO and CHESS tournaments.

“Still got the old foam cup I gave you last week?” I asked.

“Yup.” Lester handed it to me, and I tossed it into Ms. Duffle’s weed garden. It’s been months since her stepson came by to take care of her garden since she passed. Tragic.

“Mind if I get some?” Mr. Hagan asked reluctantly.

“For you Bootsy, the world!” I said.  Mr. Bootsy Hagan, another "woe to one of the world's saddest screwballs" sob story. He was abandoned by his oldest sister when she pushed him out of the car and drove 800 miles back to their hometown. A pool cleaner witnessed the whole event and reported it to the local social services department. Known for their bright bureaucratic decision-making skills and intellect, they placed Bootsy with a family with 19 children. He eventually ran away from the Duggan Family doppelgangers. Bootsy turned the dilapidated trailer next to mine, into his home. I let him borrow a couple of my dresses throughout the week and my Neutrogena sunscreen. The least I can do.

“Yup.” Lester belched.

“Smooth.” Bootsy agreed while wiping his mouth.

“Glad you both like it. Keep the foam cups. I’ll replace them next week.”

“My angel,” Bootsy replied affectionately.

“Yup,” repeated Lester.

“Lester, Ms. Bostman lives in the green trailer, not the yellow trailer. You keep giving her Mr. Boston's mail and Kite is gonna take a piece from your leg again, you know how protective that pit bull can be when it comes to her mail.”

“Yup,” Lester responded without a care in the world. I wish I could resolve all my problems with “yup” and a makeshift delivery truck, things would be so much better. Consequently, Big House White Wine and a mud bath would have to do for tonight. Don’t know about tomorrow, but I know tonight, the cesspool of dark brown mud behind my trailer and a 750 ml bottle of Big House White Wine will be my Puerto Vallarta. I slipped out of my daisy dukes and noticed spotting. Well, that old untimely Aunt was not going to bother me tonight. She always overstepped her boundaries by ruining the few good moments of my life. “Come back in the next 4 hours!” I yelled. Nevertheless, I got together my tampons and pads, because I already knew that she was good at division. So that meant I had two hours to myself and then she would bring the rain, literally! I hated getting periods. Years of anxiety from the bloody Niagara Falls that was nasty and vicious forced me to plunge myself into the lousy irrigation in the back of my trailer. But instead, I discovered a beautiful mud oasis for all my problems. I guess something good came out of me having long and heavy periods. That's if good still exists. I fell asleep peacefully.

    Alex St. Claire kept a steady hand while removing the hunting knife from the inside of her 18kt white gold vest pocket. The deep vest pocket on the Stuart Hughes Vicuña wool custom suit had taken over a year to sew. Only three of the suits had been made available to 1% of the world’s richest saps, and Axel had purchased all three. She kept one for herself and set fire to the other two. Anything identical was deplorable. The tip of her right index finger traced along the spiked steel edges of the serrated blade. Axel closed her eyes each time the knife pierced her skin, as she used her crimson red cloth of mulberry silk to remove the sweat from above her brows and temples. The self-inflicted painful ritual would always cause excessive perspiration. The uncontrollable sweat from her hands made the cut even more discomforting. Before the blood could drip down to the palm of her hands, she would stick it in her mouth. The taste of her own blood showed strength. She pulled a strip of gauze and wrapped it around her finger. She tossed it into my mud bath, as I slowly opened my eyes from my slumber. I laughed as it sank out of sight.

“Did you get my recipe for tonight?” I asked playfully.

“I get everything you send me Bradley.”

“Who’s Bradley?” I asked suspiciously.

“Kelis, I need for you to know how real I am and that this is not a dream or a nightmare.”

“You’ve been looking for me and now I am here.”

“Come out of that mud. You can come naked or with clothes, it doesn’t matter to me.”

“Who is Bradley?” I yelled terrified.

“Bradley is the name of the baby you carried for 3 months before you had a miscarriage,” Alex explained.

It was at that moment, I knew she was real.