Fire Hazards

“There’s a Michael Mann marathon,” Dignan tells Kilroy, wrapping her arm around Kilroy’s bare shoulder. For the second day in a row, the shades are drawn, the AC cranked. Even so, the stench of their b.o. mingles together. 

“Tonight, I mean.” She fixes him with those dark hazel eyes. Kilroy doesn’t say a word. “Honest, I don’t give a crap about Heat or Manhunter, but Collateral - I could watch Collateral again.” Kilroy dangles an arm over his side of the bed and grabs the remote off the floor. He passes the remote to the slim fire crotch resting her head on his chest. She flips channels. Cillian Murphy leads an ill-fated space expedition in Sunshine - Chris Cooper as a Texas lawman in Lone Star - Nicolas Cage, a pack of Huggies tucked under his arm, outruns the cops in Raising Arizona. Sports, news, politics. Ronald Stump taps the Chicago Boys, tries to get them on loan from Chile to bolster the economy. Ronald Stump faces off against Joe the Bread Loaf on national policy. A new breed of Kaiju spotted off the coast of Shikoku. The projected death toll for the annual purge, though there’s four months to piss away until the annual purge. “Twenty-twenty, babe. It’s an election year. You know how the purge spikes on election years,” the talking head tries to remain positive, despite the expected low turnout for an election year. White boys going postal remains at a relative low, he affirms. “Remember all the good the purge does,” he reminds reassuringly. Sweeping brush fires rake Australia over the coals. Waves and waves of hate. Goose-stepping pigs on parade. Another talking head, moonlighting as a meteorologist, promises this, the hottest day of the year, that the heatwave will break tomorrow, or the day after.  

Dignan prods his flat stomach, Kilroy waves her hand away. A slim finger prods a temple and the bridge of his nose. “What’s the frequency, Kenneth?” He swats her away the way a horse tail flicks a buzzing fly. Kilroy grabs the remote out of Dignan’s hand and flips back to the presidential debate. The highlights from a few nights back. Ronald Stump plays up how divided the country has become, floats an idea. What say we reinstate a bi-annual purge? He modestly  suggests. Twice a year, how we purged during the Reagan years? The cameras pick up a low murmur from lemmings that crowd the background. Kilroy jambs the mute button, not without satisfaction. Dignan whistles a few bars of Lana Del Rey. 

How the day started, that morning Dignan waded into Kilroy’s swimming pool. She bobbed, letting the chlorine rinse away yesterday’s sweat. 

Kilroy tilts his head, brings his nose to a spot behind her ear. “You smell. Chlorine.” “Meet you in the shower?” She coozes up and lightly nips his ear lobe. “Sixteen times, Dignan. Six-teen. Twelve yesterday, four today-”  

“Testicles are not a gas tank, Kilroy!” she barks. “They shouldn’t run empty!”  

With that, she climbs up and straddles his chest. “Horny,” she pouts. She prods his bony chest the way a petulant child will until she gets what she wants. Dignan lays herself flat on top of him, brings her face down to his face. “Oh you’ve got green eyes, oh you’ve got blue eyes, oh you’ve got grey eyes,” she sings New Order the way Kelly McDonald sings New Order in Trainspotting.    

Dignan straightens her back, thrusts her breasts out. Planted firm on his chest, her knees braced against his rib cage as though holding tight, Dignan wiggles her hips. Her dark red down tickles Kilroy’s hairless chest. “Plato O Plomo? That’s what Pablo Escobar used to say, right?” Kilroy blinks. Gold or lead? “What we have, Kilroy, is me wondering, what’s it gon’ be? Hard wood or velvet buzzsaw?” Kilroy makes a face. “Wh-are you work shopping a spec script?” Off the cuff, “We can have us a chick-lick remake of Naked Came The Stranger.” Dignan winks. “With Radley Metzger in the ground, Henry Paris is up for grabs.” Dignan hums. She makes her voice harsh. “I memorize all the words to the porno movies,” Dignan beats her palms against his chest in time to Marylin Manson. Kilroy rolls his eyes. “Which porno movies?” 

With this cutesy way about her, Dignan starts counting off on her fingers.  

“The Devil in Miss Jones, The Opening of Misty Beethoven, Deepthroat, The Private Afternoons of Pamela Mann. Um, Behind the Green Door, The Boys in the Sand.” Dignan pauses to catch her breath. “Barbara Broadcast…The Bondage of Anne…” With a start, Dignan yelps “Debbie Does Dallas!” She playfully slaps Kilroy’s ribs. “How come I didn’t think of that first? Adjusted for inflation, Debbie Does Dallas is the highest-grossing porn ev- or was that Deepthroat?” She pauses, unsure. With a wave of the hand she continues, “Andy Warhol may have been a retard obsessed with soup cans, but god bless his ass - when Warhol made Blue Movie he threw open the floodgate.”  

Kilroy deadpans, “Classy, Dignan. Classy. But what we really need is the sorta skin-flick where the busty vixen takes charge. Take Ils-” 

“Ilsa, She Wolf of the S.S.!” Dignan, excited to catch on. She snaps the fingers on her left hand. “What was the name of that broad? God, the tits on her…” 

“...Dyanne Thorne?” Kilroy suggests. The foxy babe on top of him shrugs. “Maybe?” Though Kilroy is right, Dignan sounds non-committal. “Maybe.”     

Kilroy smacks her ass and Diggs climbs off. “Female friendly, huh? Didn’t realize you were such a softy,” Dignan teases.  

Kilroy flicks his brow. “I suppose you want to discuss the films of Barbara Loden and Chantal Akerman?” 

“Honest, I do like both bitches.” Dignan tips her head gently. “Alright, Jeanne Dielmann was fuck-me terrible, but Akerman made this other movie, News From Home? News From Home was cool. I saw that with my mom.” 

“That’s swell, babe,” Kilroy flashes her his best Johnny-All-American pearly whites. “Next you’ll explain your favorite Ingmar Bergman movie.” Dignan pauses. “Summer With…Monika? - no, no - ah - Wild Strawberries!” Wait. “What about Wild Strawberries?” Kilroy lets out a yawn and with that yawn the tennis-banter fizzles. Kilroy mutters how he needs to get in touch with Stump. 

His pale hand fishes the floor for his briefs. This ghostly white ass slowly slips outta bed and rounds the corner to the living room. “Put a fucken baby in me, you mule-sperm motherfucker!” Dignan yells after him from the edge of the bed.     

Dignan snoozes. Kilroy on the phone teases out a contingency plan, on the off-chance Stump’s campaign goes tits up in November.  

The face of California tilts away from the sun. Temperatures drop. Coyotes swoop on Hollywood how the Manson Family swooped down on anyone who wasn’t beautiful. Dignan stirs, flips the channel to the block of Michael Mann movies as Heat winds down. Her raw, red snapper primed for another shag, Dignan prowls the darkened house on Mulholland. There. She runs her digits though the frizz of blonde hair. Twice he shafts her on the couch before Dignan shuffles her way back to bed to catch the final minutes of Manhunter. She jacks up the volume and watches with dopey grin the kick-ass climax. On screen, Graham smashes through a window. The Tooth Fairy squeezes off shotgun shells on the pigs as “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” blares. That movie ends, and minutes later Tom Cruise is hailing a cab with Jamie Foxx behind the wheel.       

…Two in the morning, Collateral wraps up. Dignan flips a couple channels and settles on Tom Hardy, out on a late-night drive in Locke.