Secret Little Dealer Diplomat

And another offered limb Frances cricked, and another, folded each appendage against itself. “Brittle boy,” in a kind of whisper she said.

The shitty little junkie angel yelped. His wings fluttered and seized like swatting like flies. Frances took her hands away, and away he went along the salon’s tall ceiling.

“I’m sorry,” Frances cried out. “I’m sorry I’m sorry” as he scraped and crashed pillar icon arch. Then the chandelier seized up the bent limbs in its wires.

He stopped bound gave out. When he saw what that cleaving string feeling was he whined. Think of like being stuck in a box of knives.

Frances brought a chair to stand upon so she could unwind the shitty little junkie angel. She pushed and pulled at him to find slack to stretch to these weird but interesting angles. When she untangled the last one the shitty little junkie angel just hung there in the same place crying.

“Try to use them,” she said. All business this lady!

Pet his anemic head.

“We want to double check.”

(Double check any sort of use viability.)

The shitty little junkie angel didn’t get it like who’s going to check if these fucked up things can actually do anything so he did what he always did when someone was throwing their weight around and he went along with it. He would give like a second’s gravity to just barely tap the bend above the calf to the floor, he hurt hurt hurt but he was afraid it would get worse. When he did it eighty-eight pounds at once, a whale of inside splinters, the shitty little junkie angel bolted right back up, wings full span, and bumped his head then back against the ceiling raining motes again. “I’m sorry I’m sorry,” said Frances. There was a yellow grease spot on the tile where he touched.

The shitty little junkie angel was long dry twigs, but he also had a swinging tumid tummy. With just the crappy wings to stabilize him that belly lurched and bounced in wild directions. He had always felt bad about that body part sadly. Now that it kept rubbing and smacking against the limbs he longed to excise it.

He wanted to lay down to maybe still the pain in general and because his wings were tired (hypotrophied). He hovered above Frances’s couch and aimed his ass down at the cushions and bent his triangles up quads afire. When it looked like he was situated he came down.

The result: the right leg thing was fine but the left one curled down back along itself to an angle that caught at the seat unless he held the thigh nearly parallel to his arms next to the little paunch, a space unfortunately and unavoidably unavailable.

Frances came behind the shitty little junkie angel and tilted back the sofa against her. It looked like he was struggling to find a good angle.

He almost burst out No I’m snagged!

He rose like a rocket.

Let himself fall and then caught himself fell and caught himself let himself catch and fall and fell like torture kegels.

Frances fetched and served a glass of half-iced cough syrup with a pink straw. That is she held the drink up and the shitty little junkie angel took thirsty gurgled sips in that quiver dance.

“You’re sure to get through quick,” she said. “They won’t even want to look at you.”

(Frances facilitated crossing the border. The law is fickle and she got creative with what could qualify as asylum. It was a crazy and mostly fun racket.)

“You just have to make it to the gates and they’ll fix you I think, they have a thing for charity. Usually people don’t come back, so I guess they have a thing for being friends too. I’ll be here I guess if you ever want to see me again or if you’re nearby. You’re always welcome really. Also if everything goes to shit, of course, you’ll come back here and we’ll do something else.”

They looked at each other and then looked away.

This took some brain power out of the shitty little junkie angel and he was tired and like half-withdrawaled.

He had been counting on going the next morning, and he had been led to believe that he could spend the night. But the wings were like going out soon.

So he tried again. He braced and pressed one of the curvy leg things against a wall.

The limb didn’t straighten out but rather bent sharper at the edges. Sharp sharp along the whole length of the thing, and sharp in the whole shape the limb was supposed to extend to, real and firm, ghostly gravity lugging him back to his feet.

It felt like his whole life was sour and expired. And obviously not freshly so.

Frances reached with her long strong arms under his armpits and sustained him up and in the clear like boobs. He felt more vulnerable at this respite. The shitty little junkie angel was like a C, at the end of her fingers and all.

“The wings are a problem,” she told him after considering it suddenly. “Looks too perfect circle if the wings are still going.”

(Just a suggestion.)

The shitty little junkie angel, a real schemer par addiction, had a similar thought: looks too perfect circle if his face is still gleaming perfection. He, a go-getter bar starving orphans, swung his neck back and then brought his forehead and nose onto and through Frances’ small chapped lips. She fell backwards. She held out her hands to catch upon the couch but she missed and hit her forearm against the plastic armrest. The shitty little junkie angel didn’t think, he dropped right upon her fuming. Limbs compressed and buckled unbuckled between them. The shitty little junkie angel pinched up and down his sore flaking hole it hurt real bad all over to keep at his task, bammed and bammed his head against Frances’s until she was an oily flat mess.

He waved his wings to extricate her from the whole scraggly fucked up arms and legs thing. This messy work of God was sobbing and wailing and gasping discharging like drowning smoke. Frances flinched away, she plopped off he bounced back.

She whimpered but not anywhere near as over the top as the shitty little junkie angel did. Well I didn’t ask for that she thought. He disappeared from her sight.

Get out get out—mirror in the bathroom—there wasn’t one on the wall but a handle sticking out of a bag on the shelf along the sink—no fucking way—to Frances’s bedroom—a big sty but a tidy one—quite a few empty quarters—in finally hers icons everywhere—no one the shitty little junkie angel would ever ever know—at last, upon a mantelpiece above rows of Frances’s funny little jewelry—the shitty little junkie angel considered his face and saw it was good. Good enough.

(Frances’s husband came home later and put her back together again. She couldn’t work for a while but she forgave forgot and prayed for the shitty little junkie angel where he went.)