The Nearest Exit

Chapter 1

"I'm rape progeny." I say. Pete chokes on his fig newton, Becky's jaw falls into her lap, and the autistic kid starts clapping. The rest gawk. This is my 'Victims of Abuse' group, by the way. It's basically a circle jerk of people feeling sorry for themselves and pretending to feel sorry for each other. I just broke convention. I was supposed to talk about some minor inconvenience in my life so they could commence their bukkake of sympathy all over my face.

"You mean, you're a prodigious rapist?" Asks Pete, after recouping from his deep throated fig newton.

"No, Pete. You're thinking of prodigy. Progeny means offspring." I reply.

"Oh." He says.

"So, you rape your offspring?" It's Bob this time.

Becky clasps her hands to her mouth. I sip the filtered water from my cone-shaped paper cup.

"No, it means my dad raped my mom."

"You weren't aborted?" Asks Pete.

An astute observation, Pete. "Her pastor guilt tripped her." I explain.

"Kinda like how the priest touches kids?" Bob again. 

"You know what? Sure." I raise my cup to him.

I should probably mention we're in a mental hospital. That's important. Bob's actually been through the wringer more than a couple of times. His father, Bob Sr., was apparently some unsung hero of the serial killer community: a Nikola Tesla of manslaughter, so to speak. When the time came to do some killing, his dad would use him (Baby-Bob) as bait to lure his unsuspecting prey. This entailed many-a-stabbings at Bob's expense, which went on for at least a couple of years, I think. Bob's mother was thought to be in cahoots with her husband during the parentally guided killing spree. But no one knows for sure, though, since she was found dead with a binky in her mouth, Bobby Sr.'s calling card.

"Anyone else?" Asks Jesse, our moderator.

"I got something." Bob says, his mouth curled at the edges.

The room's air tightens.

"The floor is yours." Declares Jesse.

"Yeah so, I saw a dog outside my window yesterday morning. I think it was a Weimaraner. Anyway, I thought to myself, now there's life I wouldn't mind having, you know?"

The room murmurs in unanimity, not me. I wonder how he knows what a Weimaraner is. 

"I was thinking, here is one of God's mostest majestic creations."

He actually said 'mostest.'

"This creature has no idea who or what it is." He continues, "It just lives its life, you know? And then, I have to ask myself, why God? Why can't it be me?" He's looking up at the water-damaged ceiling tiles now.

"God isn't real." Announces Becky.

"He is to! I seen Him." He says.

"How do you see Him?"

"I see Him every day in my morning coffee." His voice was smug.

What the hell are they spiking his drinks with?

"What?" She asks.

He clears his throat, though I don't hear any phlegm.

"Every morning, after I finish drinking, God leaves a sign at the bottom of the cup for me, in the coffee dregs."

"Oh yeah? And what did He leave you this morning?" She asks.

"This morning? It was uh... a tortoise."

"Like a turtle?"

"No, like a tortoise."

"I see. And God knew that you knew what that was?"

"The Lord works in mysterious ways." He waves his hands and makes an invisible rainbow.

"Well, the next time you see Him, tell Him I want my clitoris back."

This is Becky, by the way. The only person with a clitoris-less vagina in our group, or with a vagina period, for that matter. Why she's here, no one really knows. What we do know is that she has a severe deficiency of clit. I'm not well versed in vaginal calamities to explain, but that doesn't matter because she changes her story every time she tells it, and she always tells it. Not that I mind. One time she told us she was in search of some elusive chili pepper in South America and was ambushed by a swarm of flesh-eating piranhas while crossing the Amazon River. Making out like bandits, they apparently robbed her of the peppers and her bean. Her "scream-bean," as she called it. Go figure. Another time she said she was traversing through the Arabian desert and was taken hostage by Jihadists or some terrorist group, I don't know. As a prisoner of war, the price of ransom was, you guessed it, her precious "diddle-skittle."

"No one wants to hear about your stupid missing twat, Becky!" Bob yells. He thinks the clitoris is the whole vagina. God help him.

"That's not what a clitoris is, you dumbass!" She shouts.

"You know what? I'm gonna post wanted posters all over town so we can get your missing vag back." He says. Then he puts on his best anchorman voice, very formal, "Have you seen this pussy? Last seen on the bayou, most likely swallowed by alligators, carries a putrid smell and unshaven bush, not to be mistaken for the swamp monster. Reward of five G's." Then he says, "And by 'G' I mean gonorrhea."

Bob can't tie his shoes, but he monologues like a Bond villain.

Upon hearing the missing hoo-ha report, Becky stands up from her seat, slowly. Bob just idles there while the rest of us look around for the nearest exit. She reaches back, caressing her fingers around the aluminum fold-up chair and, with one hand, takes a swing; she was fairly well built for a woman. Bob gets waylaid across the face and plunges toward the tiled floor, head first. He smacks into it with a cold slap, drool flying everywhere. It was actually almost in slow motion to tell you the truth. We rear back in our seats, all of our faces kind of receding into our heads a little bit, like how a turtle retreats into its shell, or a tortoise. Then Pete says, "Uh... Amen."

...