"Fountainhead Fred" by RJ Lippold

Fountainhead Fred

by RJ Lippold

In the dark early morning hours of that day, I woke up just outside of my apartment building, covered in blood. My face, hair, shirt and tighty-whities were soaked in the stuff. I was behind the cube-shaped bushes next to the front steps. I searched myself frantically for a wound or judging by the amount, a gaping hole this had to of come from. Brushing woodchips off the congealed plasma, I lifted my shirt, checked my arms and legs, and found nothing. I couldn’t tell what time it was, but it was still dark and felt to be the time I usually get up to open the gas station. There was none of the usual chatter about the complex. Everyone was tucked away in their warm Temperpedic beds.

While frisking myself down I realised how bloated my arms and hands had become. They looked like they belonged to a fat mannish baby. My elbows were cute dimples set in ballooned shiny skin. My hands were two adorable chubby spheres with ten little cocktail wiener digits peeking out, my legs and feet were similar. My cheeks felt enormous. My head twice the normal size! 

I quickly followed a full-on path of blood around to the side entrance of my crummy studio apartment. I passed my cute novelty garden gnome, which was bent over and perpetually baring a rosy ceramic ass. I suddenly felt like a novelty now myself. The road of blood seemed to have started at the patio. The sliding glass door was left wide open. The concrete was soaked, and wicker chairs were flecked dark red. My mind rifled through the last memories I’d had before bed. I hadn’t smoked or drank, that’s for sure. I was on the couch watching Head Banger’s ball, while flipping through an issue of Fangoria and eating Slim-Jims before easing into sleep.

Music began playing inside, from my bedroom. My alarm clock radio was blaring Def Leppard’s current chart buster. A winy Joe Elliot squealed for me to “Pour some sugar” on the problem as I tracked blood through the kitchen and into the bathroom. Flipping on the lights, I ran to the sink. I scrubbed my arms and face maniacally; the porcelain became a scarlet swirl. Oddly enough, I could feel no wounds or pain. In fact, I felt rather good. I reached blindly for a towel and wiped myself clean. I stayed perched on the sink, reading the pink stains like a Rorschach test. I was afraid to look in the mirror. ‘Had it finally happened?’ I wondered.

Since childhood I had been collecting packs of Garbage Pail Kids, even though my strict parents had forbidden it. They felt the same about everything I was drawn to at the time. They did not think it was appropriate for an alter boy to listen to Ratt, read Tales from the Crypt, or collect bastardised depictions of Cabbage Patch dolls, crawling through the dumpsters of depravity. Luckily, I had a sly piss-ant of a cousin that snuck me a few packs, along with a mixtape entitled, Thrash Masters. Ever since then,  I was hooked. I had a pantheon of disgusting idols. Legends like, Dead Ted, Adam Bomb, Evil Eddie, Junky Jeff and Nerdy Norm. These deviant yarn-haired cherubs proudly displayed their comical brushes with death and disfiguring conditions. Despite their isolating hardships, they looked happy. 

They seemed to thrive off pain and wear their disgusting natures with joy. The worst that life had to offer afflicted them and yet, they held onto gratitude. Most people were only happy when life was good. Any idiot could do this. But to smile when an atomic cloud tore through your cranium or to gleefully unzip your face to reveal a bare skull beneath? This was true joy. I’d prayed years for this.

I rose and stared back at myself in the mirror. I couldn’t help but smile at my new fat rose-coloured cheeks which squinted my now tiny blue eyes. Then it rose up out from my ginger doll hair….a large water tap! A kitschy cartoonish one with a big T handle. I licked my lips as I slowly reached to turn it. There was so much blood! Gallons and gallons of elation poured round my cute little dancing feet. I jumped and spun in place, splattering the entire room. I had never been so happy in all of my life. They would call me Fred….Fountainhead Fred.

Truly, this is what I had always wanted. If only my parents could see me now.