Just Like Taylor Swift

Just like Taylor Swift

“You’ve had it done, haven’t you, you crazy bastard?” said Keller.

Mitchell looked across the restaurant table with affirmative eyes.

“Show me then,” said Keller.

Mitchell placed his tanned hands on the crisp white table cloth, the ringed fingers of the left one drumming lightly as he set himself, before poking the tip of his tongue out at Keller. 

The lozenge of flesh was pure white. Mitchell had bleached his most social organ, turning it from a muscular, cave-dwelling tool, into an accessory, an iTongue. His face was a meme, his primary speech organ a fashion statement. Keller was vaguely aware of the viral trend and rumours had reached him that the social contagion had infected Mitchell.

Keller stared, his own tongue reflexively running around the inside of his mouth, sliding over the smoothness and serrations of his wine tangy teeth.

“How do they do it?” said Keller.

“I’sch ‘ike a chachoo, bu’ chou have to top up the pigmensch regurary.” As he spoke the white worm strobed in the subdued restaurant light.

“Jesus, you sound like a pissed Sean Connery’s Godfather impression.”

“Schtir go’ schwerring.”

“Must have been agony.”

“Genera’ anasche’ic. Schti’ hur’ ‘ike a bas’ar.”

Keller puffed out his cheeks and took a drink of his wine.

“Jey can joo Alpsh under ‘ocal anasche’ic…”

“Alps?”

“Alpsh. Jus’ ge’ the tipsh done, bu’ no’ me. chip choo roo’ fo’ me.” Mitchell opened his mouth and slowly pushed out as much swollen tongue as he could.

Keller frowned as he processed the mangled words. “Ah, tip to root, so I see. You’ve had your teeth done too.”

“Jasch why jhey shtarted jooing i’. Perfec’ whi’e smi’. Bu’ icsh more jan jhat.”

“Well, when you stick it out you look like a Gene Simmons colouring book. How much has this cost you?”

“Go’ a paymen’ pran. I'csh fine.”

“Have a drink, you crazy bastard,” said Keller, slugging from his own glass and reaching for the half-empty bottle of malbec to fill Mitchell’s glass. Mitchell’s rings clicked against the delicate rim as he placed his hand over the glass.

“No fanks. Schtaining.”

“Right, white then?”

“No booge.”

“What about food?”

“Egg whitesh, cucumber wif no shkin. Roads of shtuff I can ea’. Schfine.”

“Well, I’m having a steak.” Keller leant back in his seat, eyes fixed on Mitchell and chewed on a wine-stained lip. “All this to have a white tongue. A grown man,” he said, more to himself than Mitchell who looked down at his hands gripping the edge of the table.

“Anyway, did you collect from Gene? Or at least send Ray round to see him while you were under genera’ anasche’ic?”

Mitchell steepled his fingers and looked up at Keller. “Joo don’ unershtan’, Kel. Itsch totally unique. Everyboy'sh doing i'.”

“Forget about the tongue, Mitch. Tell me you collected from Gene.”

“Ray wash buishy, an’ I wasch…”

“You were having a midlife crisis when you should have been handling your business.”

“I’sch no’ a crishish.”

“If you do something to yourself that renders you incapable of saying the word crisis, then it’s probably a crisis. But never mind that, not collecting means not paying me, and that, that’s definitely a crisis.”

“Shorry, Kel.”

Keller raised a thick finger. “Don’t say what I think you’re going to say.”

A waiter stepped smartly up to the table.

“Five minutes please,” said Keller, beaming briefly at the waiter who retreated as Keller’s slack glare fell back to Mitchell.

“Shorry, Kel.”

Keller emptied his glass and hunched forward onto his folded arms. Mitchell took his hands off the table and dipped a shaking finger in a glass of water and raised it to moisten his lips.

“Jesus Christ, you can’t even lick your lips, you sound like a moron, can you even taste anything?”

“No’ ye’” said Mitchell, his eyes fixed on the short stretch of pristine white between him and Keller’s cutlery.

“Thish ish bad, Mitch,” hissed Keller through gritted teeth before he realised that it made him sound like a much angrier Mitchell. He unclenched his teeth and stretched his jaw to relax the tight muscles. Closing his eyes he continued calmly, “you know you’re responsible for the debt.”

Mitchell nodded.

“But you can’t pay, can you?”

After a stretched moment, Mitchell shook his head.

“But you’ve got a payment plan for your tongue?”

Mitchell nodded his head.

Keller rubbed his temples where veins were fattening with malbec spiked blood. He licked his lips and took a deep breath, letting the exhale deflate him into his chair.

“We’ve known each other for a long time, Mitch. I’m sure we can work this out.” He fiddled with his fork, pressing down on the tines to swing it around before snatching it up to point at Mitchell, then picked up his knife and pointed that at Mitchell too.

“Well, now you’ve got a payment plan with me too. There we go. All sorted.”

Mitchell swallowed and took a deep breath of his own, trying to slow the racing pulse that seemed to be surging in his poor turgid tongue.

“Thanksh, Kel.”

“Now, tell me all about this tongue madness. I’ve seen it on the internet, but I didn’t think people were actually doing it. Why go and do a thing like that?”

Mitchell brightened and looked up at Keller, hands back grasping the table.

“I’sch a whole new iden’ichy, i’sch a way of rife! Alpsh get their tipsh done, bu' I’m all in. I’sch, rike, shpirichual or somefing, Kel. Diet, dishiprin, appearansh. Tay’or Scshwifsh even ha’ i’ done!”

Keller nodded along as he drained the bottle of wine down to the gritty tannins, which he tipped greedily into his mouth and ground against his palate with his own half-pickled tongue.

“Give us a smile then,” said Keller.

Mitchell grinned, porcelain teeth slightly parted, the gap filled with an alabaster burger of tongue, a much-selfied manner of smiling, common among the disciples of the new trend.

“Well, it’s a look, I’ll give you that. Maybe I’m just getting old.”

“I’sch no' for everyone. Jhey joo corours, no’ jus’ white. Jhere’sh brack onesh, jhey get called giraffesh, bu’ jhey don’ unnershtan’. I’sch abou’ puri’y, perfecshun. Need shomshing crean in my rife. Shpeshully in our rine of work.”

“Are you sure the anaesthetic’s worn off?”

“You don’ unnershtan.”

“Guilty. Guilty as charged. All this and you’ve still got to have top ups too?”

“Fresh pigmen’ and porishin’. Bu’ onry every two monfsh if you don’ ge’ schtainsh. I’sch exshpenshive, bu’ i’sch worf I’. I’sch a new rife.”

“It’s a brave new world.”

“Ecshackry!” said Mitchell shining a lighthouse grin at Keller, who stared back, not at a bright light, but a vacuous glossed void.

“Big commitment, isn’t it?”

“Yesh!”

“Take it really seriously, don’t you? This is something that really matters to you?”

“Yesh, Kel. It’sch no’ shom fad.”

“Christ,” said Keller, staring into the middle distance over Mitchell’s shoulder. “My Grandma used to make me tongue sandwiches,” he said to himself in a voice lost in archive footage of a homespun youth. “We didn’t even know we needed white tongues to be better people.”  Keller stared at Mitchell and snapped his teeth together, working his square jaw. “You know what you look like? You remember when Crucifix Mick went mental and burned the church down? They found all of his scrapbooks with pictures of the Royal Family with bits of their faces scratched out. Give me a big grin. Yes! You look like Crucifix Mick’s done your portrait!” Keller laughed hard as Mitchell let his grin dim and his lips sag over his glistening teeth and tongue.

Keller raised a hand and snapped his fingers. “I’m starving. Do you think they’ll do me a tongue sandwich?” He wheezed and let a fringe of blood-red tongue squeeze between his wine-stained teeth. “Is it white all the way through?” His laughter shifted up a gear as he picked up his knife motioning to saw at his own tongue which jabbed, puce and mossy, from his puckered mouth.

Mitchell sat back in his chair and reached for his water, his rings playing a tinkling drum-roll as he gripped the glass with a shaking hand.

“May I take your order, gentlemen?” said the waiter.

“Yeah, we’ll need a bottle of the Syrah, please,” said Keller, composing himself and fixing his stare back on Mitchell as he tapped his knife on the table. “And we’ll have two of the squid ink starters, then two steaks, rare, red wine jus. Then we’ll have two of the triple chocolate fudge things. And we’ll need two glasses for the Syrah, thanks.” Keller handed the unopened menus to the waiter. “That all good for you, Mitchell?”

Mitchell closed his eyes and raised his hand to cover his mouth, muttering, “Yesh… shankyou, Kel.”

“It’s on me, of course, just like everything else, just like your nasty little white tongue. Now that’s a horrible thought, isn’t it! Isn’t it Mitchell? Are you crying Mitchell?