Date with a dustmite
Willie Smith
     The Incredible Shrinking Man landed a date with a dust mite. Dinah, her name. The drive-in their destination. A real horror show - triple bill bloodfest. The Shrinking Man wore a plaid leisure suit designed under an electron microscope. Dinah shoeless and barelegged in her own godgiven gnarly coat.
     In the dark of the seat they had hardly begun to bill and coo, when through the open passenger window bumped the Invisible Man; who had himself been downsized - through the uncertainty principle - to slave in a Minnie Mouse subsidiary of a microchip factory; a kinda Jimminy Cricket alphabet omega point sweatshop. It was Friday night - he was free, escaped, high on freon ion laced with too much pion; up for whatever wormhole.
     A sucker for dandruff, drawn by smell alone, Dinah fell for his head. Jealousy swept over the Shrinking Man like Nazis over the 1941 steppes.
     Through the windshield, up on the screen, inside a jail cell, a lunatic devoured a bat. A secret that hinged on prior knowledge he could - due to shock - not express drove him crazy. A hopeless actor in his late fifties, he actually was appropriately cast. The live bat also looked terrified, insane, very likely - in reality - in hell. But cut to - as the maniac prepares to bite off a wing - the papier-mache; although soundtrack continues tortured squeals.   
     Embarrassed by the seams of the fakery, I stared down into my lap at the abandoned hand, Dinah now absorbed with the I. M.
     I…? My hand?
     Holy Carlos Castanets - I was dreaming!
     Focused on a crablike mole on the back of my flip finger. Hey - I was in charge. I could deal with this. But… once God - what do? Well, what you want. Although, watch it: because want also means lack.
     Oh… why not trade paradox for a pair of socks that match?
     I looked back up on the vast screen. Some guy - dead ringer for Yours Dreaming - was doing Dinah. Enjoying her rottweiler style. And this dude was anything but shrinking; although he was, yeh, incredible. Ecstatically Dinah's ovoid body jittered. I sat back to gloat in glee - someone, oh someone I know, is in the kitchen. Scrunching expectantly on the vinyl behind the wheel, I unexpectedly spotted, in the August twilight between the windshield and the screen, a lightning bug patrol. On and off - through chartreuse bio-glow - in remorseless code the bugs implied God disported not alone.
     I glanced down over to my right. Saw no one. Closed door, rolled-down window. Microbus parked alongside, kids conceivably in the back doing the expected. Well… of course: I had put Dinah up on the screen - created a star.
     Then back up to the two-dimensional action my eye creeped. Something hinted something up there not right. Meticulously, God - ignoring electric beetle floaters - recalled X-ray vision. Flipped a switch; powered up the old metaphysical mechanism. Thereby to reveal my beloved's mouth part grommeted around the Invisible Man's unmentionable.
     I - God in this goddamn dream - was sharing the mystery of the other - who (my heart hoped) likewise treasured that mystery in my own person - with a see-through figment. And the horror horripilated when the I. M. squeaked in his dog whistle soprano, "Hey - ya wanna switch?"
     I froze. Consciousness - in selfdefense - down a chute skated out onto the rink of Genesis.
     A member of the neighboring tribe had raped Dinah. Her kinsmen visited the offender's tribe. Discussed with them the incident. At length agreed - bygones, bye-bye. But let's hitch the kids. Legally. Meaning first, for all the males in this new family being welcomed into our family, the trifle of circumcision. A gesture entailing no strings; absolutely no religious commitment; no more traumatic than paring the nails on the way to the chapel. Besides, you'll notice the disappearance of cheese; plus that much easier to rid yourself of crabs.
     After trading yuks about icepicks, sledgehammers, dynamite, battery acid, lye - they spat into their palms; shook on it.
     "Here's to," the neighbor chief pronounced, "among neighbors peace."
     Piece o' ass o' my sister, the head Hebrew thought, smiling.
     The chief returned the smile. The nomad broadened his, encouraging his neighbor to think it a sheer gladface.
     They sent over, swift as thought, Dr. Jekyll and his nurse Annabelle Lee to get each and everyone of the fellas properly peeled. Pretty painless. Till the local wore off.
     Ow! Ow! The boys - to a man - forgot booty; ditched the whole sex kaboodle. Lay back carefully. Allergic to the very idea of pee. Dr. J. and his sidekick Lee muttered on the way out everybody might, for the next seventy-two hours, wanna take it easy.    
     Next day, when God began to up on the screen thaw, the Chosen creeped nextdoor. Drew snickeringly their swords, and ran through the lot; every neighbor boy still lying around whistling Dixie with his dick in a sling.
     God found Himself focusing down on my shadowy self behind the wheel in the obscure car parked between that microbus and a phantom Galaxie. Jacob's offspring meanwhile go nuts - pillage, loot, burn; enslave the women, skewer the children; exult in dishing out cold revenge. The whole story waxes perverse, actually. So I lost myself gazing up instead at my double. One of us directing him and/or me to re-engage in the ongoing recreational sex.
     Dinah hunched in my lap. I in turn sat on a rhinestone-studded throne. While, facing me, the I. M. stood snaking her esophagus. It was still too much. Sobbing, I buried my chin in her dorsal integument. Lustily - as she fell to cowboying my scepter - the suckers and barbs impregnating her hindmost legs gripped my thighs; entwined shins; stabbed, pinched ankles. The remaining four limbs of my faithless siren held the Invisible Man the way a briar patch steadies in a gust an armload of cellophane.
Read 'String of Flashes' by
Willie Smith in the print issue