Damned by Chuck Palahniuk Read Free Book Online

liquid that it appears more to roll up the shoreline than to
wash ashore as this flood tide creeps in. Apparently, on this particular ocean,
the tide never ebbs and is always flowing, always a rising flood tide.
    "Check it out," Archer says, and waves one leather-jacketed
arm in a wide arc to frame the view. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present
the Great Ocean of Wasted Sperm...."
    All ejaculate, according to Archer, expelled in masturbatory emissions
over the course of human history, at least since Onan—it all trickles down to
accumulate here. Likewise, he explains, all bloodshed on Earth trickles down
and collects in Hell. All tears. Every spit gob spit on the ground ends up
hereabouts.
    "Since the introduction of VHS tapes and the Internet,"
Archer says, "this ocean has been rising at record rates."
    I think of my Papadaddy Ben and shudder. To repeat, Long Story.
    In Hell, porn is creating an effect equivalent to that of global
warming on earth.
    The group of us take a step backward, away from the rising, shimmering
ooze.
    "Now that this twerp is dead," Patterson says, as he cuffs
Leonard on the back of the head, "maybe the ol' sperm sea won't be filling
up so fast."
    Leonard rubs his own scalp, wincing, and says, "Don't look now,
Patterson, but I think I can see some of your ball juice floating out
there."
    Looking at Babette, Archer licks his tongue around his lips and says,
"One of these days we're going to be up to our eyeballs...."
    Babette looks at the diamond ring on my finger.
    Archer, still ogling her, says, "Hey, Babs, you ever been up to
your foxy eyes in hot sperm?"
    And pivoting on one scuffed heel, Babette says, "Back off, Sid
Vicious. I'm not your Nancy Spungen." Waving for us to follow her,
fluttering her white-painted fingernails, Babette looks at Patterson in his
football jersey and says, "It's your turn. Now you show us someplace
interesting."
    Patterson swallows, shrugs his shoulders, and says, "You guys want
to see the Swamp of Partial-birth Abortions?"
    We, the rest of us, all shake our heads, No. Slowly. In unison, for a
long time, no, no, no. Definitely not.
    As Babette strides away from the Ocean of Wasted Sperm, Patterson trots
to catch up with her. The pair of them link arms, walking together. The team
captain and the head cheerleader. The rest of us, Leonard and Archer and I,
follow a few steps behind.
    To be honest, I keep wishing we could all talk. Chew the fat. And, yes,
I know that wishing is another symptom of hope, but I can't help it. As we
amble along, trudging over steaming brimstone beds of sulfur and coal, I want
to ask if anyone else feels an intense sense of shame. By dying, do they feel
as if they've disappointed everyone who ever bothered to love them? After all
the effort that so many people made to raise them, to feed and teach them, do
Archer or Leonard or Babette feel a crushing sense of having failed their loved
ones? Do they worry that dying constitutes the biggest sin they could possibly
commit? Have they considered the possibility that, by dying, each of us has
generated pain and sorrow which our survivors must suffer for the remainder of
their lives?
    In dying—worse than flunking a grade in school, or getting arrested, or
knocking up some prom date—perhaps we've majorly, irreversibly fucked up.
    But nobody brings up the subject, so I don't either.
    If you asked my mom, she'd tell you that I've always been a little
coward. As my mom would say, "Madison, you're dead... now, stop being so needy."
    Probably everyone in the world looks like a coward when compared to my
mom and dad. My parents were always leasing a jet to fly round-trip to Zaire
and bring home an adopted brother or sister for Christmas—not that we
celebrated Christmas—but the same way my friends might find a puppy or kitten
under their holiday tree, I'd find a new sibling from some obscure,
postcolonial, living-nightmare place. My parents meant well, but the road to
Hell is paved with publicity stunts.