Page 72 of Start With A Slap

It’s a goth-metal Christmas.

A skinny, sweaty band performs on a warehouse stage in various oversized pieces of a Santa Claus outfit. The guitarist, who’s wearing the pants, has a blood-streaked bare chest—blood that seems to originate from his misshapen nose. He chugs from a fifth, and slurs into the microphone, “This is for Roxie. And the two-face fascist fuck what’s knobbin’ her now. S’called Axe Wound.”

He starts a dark, melodic riff, and sings, “I’m gonna hack you up in pieces and stuff you in a box,” before a bouncer comes up to the stage. As he’s ushered off, he flings his whiskey bottle into the audience and shouts, “Suck my cock, Sever Mark! Happy fucking Christmas.”

Someone near the camera asides smugly, “I assume they’re off the roster now then?”

A female ass, clad only in a pink lace thong, is lined with white powder. A pound note, rolled into a straw, is lowered over it. The owner of the ass giggles. “Ooh! That tickles.”

The camera pans out. It’s Roxie, in a Santa hat and sparkly red halter top, lounging belly-down on a black lacquer coffee table bedecked with drugs and candy canes. The space around the table is occupied by slouchy disaffected youths with asymmetrical hair. Behind her, a shirtless guy with a full back tattoo is painting on the wall.

“Who else wants a bump off my rump?” Roxie, beaming like she’s pleasantly high, lifts her long, false ruby-dotted lashes toward the party crowd. Ignoring the offers around her, she sucks on a candy cane and says, “Sever?”

The camera moves until it settles on the back of a skinny guy with a punky pompadour. He’s beseeching a scowling brunette who looks like she’s playing dress-up.

“Sever! Hello! Fuckin’ look at me!” Roxie’s tone starts out breezy but takes a turn for the tantrum. “Asshole? Motherfucker, I’m talking to you!”

“Do Ilooklike your sodding dog?” he snaps at Roxie, revealing a youthful profile, then: “Portia, don’t go?—”

Roxie rants in the background, “Fuck you, you arrogant shit! Aidey, come here!”

Ivy has to rewind to hear what Portia says: “I won’t share you with that slag.”

“I told you, it’s over, all right? She’s with Aidan now—look! I married you, didn’t I? It’s you I want.”

“Everyone knows, don’t they? I’m the last.”

“They know fuck-all! Portia?—”

“OH, yeah! Give it to mama.” The camera finds Roxie, on her back on the table, the shirtless artist’s face buried between her legs. It’s Aidan Duggan, young goth edition. His black lipstick is smeared on his face. “You’re such a good boy!” Blonde hair fanning behind her, she flashes Sever a provocative grin as she says, “You’re the best mama’s ever had.”

The camera turns to Sever, and he’s staring her down like an enraged yet horny bull. A disgusted Portia slipsout behind him unnoticed. He spots the camera. “Get that bloody thing out my face?—”

The screen went blue, and Ivy sorted the facts: Sever stole Roxie away from some angry musician, Sever married someone stable but kept seeing Roxie, then Aidan stole Roxie away? The only true surprise was that young Sever seemed to care about saving his marriage.

She got why he was so attracted to Roxie though; why they all were. In photographs, she was just another cute blonde, but on film, she was magnetic. Somehow, even though she cursed like a sailor and indulged in casual public sex, she didn’t seem at all cheap or trashy. Roxie had charisma to spare, an inner glow that was only heightened by a mixture of bravado and fragility.

One could describe young Sever the same way, too. Even moreso. He was an absolute supernova.

The screen flickered. There was more.

The sound of panting and gasping. The camera peeks through a curtain into a red-lit space. Two figures come into focus: It’s Sever, pants at his ankles, frantically fucking Roxie amid some stage equipment. She’s bent backward, head against an amp, his hand on her throat. She wraps her hand around his throat, and they look like they want to kill each other.

“Fucking do it,” she dares him. “Choke me, you coward. Strangle me. Do it!”

Snarling, he squeezes hard, to the point of making her gag... then he lets go. Face touching hers, he pounds into her harder and grates, “You’re ruining my life. And you bloody well know it.”

“I didn’t ask for this!”

“Down,” he says while pulling out of her. She drops to her knees and he throws his head back as he comes in her mouth.

When he’s done, he looks down at her and touches her hair. It borders on tender. But then he grabs her chin, bends to kiss her roughly, and lets her fall on her heels.

“I’m leaving tonight,” she says. “I’m never coming back!”

“Good,” he says, walking away from her. “I never want to see you again.”

When he’s out of sight, Roxie sobs.

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