Dan was the security guard at Showgirls, a little sex shop in the San
Fernando Valley, and would double as a cleaner when business was
slow. He was fine with it. In fact, he took great pride in his cleaning
duties. He would wash down the walls, the TV screens and mop the
floors of the viewing booths in the back, getting rid of all the cum and
lube stains until it shone with cleanliness, and his pride further
increased when customers would tell him how Showgirls was the
Fernando Valley, and would double as a cleaner when business was
slow. He was fine with it. In fact, he took great pride in his cleaning
duties. He would wash down the walls, the TV screens and mop the
floors of the viewing booths in the back, getting rid of all the cum and
lube stains until it shone with cleanliness, and his pride further
increased when customers would tell him how Showgirls was the
cleanest porn shop that they had ever been in. Dan knew that these same people only
seconds earlier were jacking off and smoking speed inside the booths but the
acknowledgment that he was doing a good job gave him a sense of value.
And there were times when customers would go a little too far and mess the booths up pretty
bad, having cut themselves (the booths were pretty dark) on a broken glass pipe, their
diseased blood sprayed all over the walls and floor, or sometimes (most of the time) there’d be
shit smeared all over the seat by customers who felt comfortable taking their pants completely
off. But Dan was instructed not to lash out at any customers because after all they are paying
customers and need to be treated as such, regardless of how baseless they become, how
perverted they become inside the booths. So Dan would just stare at the guilty customers
bolting for the exit, harbor vicious resentment toward all of them, sigh and grab the tin pale
and bleach-soaked terry cloth rags and get to work. It was fucked up at times, pretty goddamn
fucked up when you think about it, what a man’s gotta do to feed his wife and kid, but, hey, it’s
a weekly paycheck and I aint slangin’ rock n shit so it’s honest and decent – well, aint that
decent but, fuck it, it’s honest sure ‘nough; some are worst off. Most, actually.
One day Dan came in, on time as usual, finding the booths in pretty bad shape, the
graveyard guy passed out drunk in one of the booths.
“Hey man, wake yo ass up, shit,” Dan said as he shook the other cleaner’s shoulder.
“Man, whatthefu—“ the guy said not realizing it was Dan at first, then the sting of reality
cutting through the drunkenness and sleepiness, “Ah, shit, sorry man! Musta passed out…”
“You can’t be doin’ that shit, man. They get rid of yo ass if they check the cameras.”
“Ah man, they never check ‘em this early, chill.”
And Dan knew he was right but he just told the graveyard guy to get the fuck up, that he don’
t know shit and take off. Dan went to work: taking down condom rappers hidden behind seats,
stuck up in the grid-screen ceilings, sweeping up the small emptied lube packs and cum-
drenched napkins left in almost all the booths. He then began scrubbing down the walls with
the rags and bleach. That was done pretty quickly. He then stepped out to see if the morning
clerk was all right, walked around the parking lot, smoked a cigarette, checked all the parked
cars to make sure that they belonged to the customers in the store and if they didn’t he’d call
the towing company. He checked the back of the building for any new graffiti (the city had
already given them numerous citations for not promptly removing graffiti from the building’s
seconds earlier were jacking off and smoking speed inside the booths but the
acknowledgment that he was doing a good job gave him a sense of value.
And there were times when customers would go a little too far and mess the booths up pretty
bad, having cut themselves (the booths were pretty dark) on a broken glass pipe, their
diseased blood sprayed all over the walls and floor, or sometimes (most of the time) there’d be
shit smeared all over the seat by customers who felt comfortable taking their pants completely
off. But Dan was instructed not to lash out at any customers because after all they are paying
customers and need to be treated as such, regardless of how baseless they become, how
perverted they become inside the booths. So Dan would just stare at the guilty customers
bolting for the exit, harbor vicious resentment toward all of them, sigh and grab the tin pale
and bleach-soaked terry cloth rags and get to work. It was fucked up at times, pretty goddamn
fucked up when you think about it, what a man’s gotta do to feed his wife and kid, but, hey, it’s
a weekly paycheck and I aint slangin’ rock n shit so it’s honest and decent – well, aint that
decent but, fuck it, it’s honest sure ‘nough; some are worst off. Most, actually.
One day Dan came in, on time as usual, finding the booths in pretty bad shape, the
graveyard guy passed out drunk in one of the booths.
“Hey man, wake yo ass up, shit,” Dan said as he shook the other cleaner’s shoulder.
“Man, whatthefu—“ the guy said not realizing it was Dan at first, then the sting of reality
cutting through the drunkenness and sleepiness, “Ah, shit, sorry man! Musta passed out…”
“You can’t be doin’ that shit, man. They get rid of yo ass if they check the cameras.”
“Ah man, they never check ‘em this early, chill.”
And Dan knew he was right but he just told the graveyard guy to get the fuck up, that he don’
t know shit and take off. Dan went to work: taking down condom rappers hidden behind seats,
stuck up in the grid-screen ceilings, sweeping up the small emptied lube packs and cum-
drenched napkins left in almost all the booths. He then began scrubbing down the walls with
the rags and bleach. That was done pretty quickly. He then stepped out to see if the morning
clerk was all right, walked around the parking lot, smoked a cigarette, checked all the parked
cars to make sure that they belonged to the customers in the store and if they didn’t he’d call
the towing company. He checked the back of the building for any new graffiti (the city had
already given them numerous citations for not promptly removing graffiti from the building’s
exterior). He walked back inside, mixed the mop bucket with water and a half a pint of highly
concentrated pine-scented cleaner that most of the customers hated because they said it was
too strong and made their eyes water but the cleaners had collectively decided the stronger
the better, fuck ‘em. After he was done mopping he went to help the clerk put away empty
DVD cases (all the actual DVD discs were kept in numerical order in gigantic metal tool
cabinets behind the counter so only employees could steal them instead of customers).
His wife called every hour just to say hi and remind him that they needed diapers or milk, or
that the collection agencies were leaving nasty messages, or that the landlady is hollering
about their rent being half-a-month late already, that this time she means it, she’s gonna kick
us out, and then what? Your parents? They hate me! Yes, they do! They think I’m a dirty
spic who took their perfect Dan from ‘em and made him work mopping up shit and cum in a
scummy fuck store in North Hollywood! And Dan would let everything slide except when she
brought up his store being dirty, and he being a cleaner; he’d put his foot down and say that
he’s a security guard and that this conversation is over, DON’T EVER TALK ABOUT THE
SHOP, it’s always clean! Most customers don’t even leave a mess, they RESPECT me! And
Dan felt an overpowering rage bubbling inside of him, causing his heart to beat faster, his
brain clouding over with something, something growing bigger inside of his stomach, but he
knew how to control it and buried it deep, deep inside, pushing it far away and said, sorry, I
love you but I gotta get back to work.
The clerk asked if everything was ok, but Dan didn’t like to let his personal life get mixed in
with his work so he would always say, it’s fine, everything’s fine, burying his anger deeper and
deeper, feeling it turn into something else, almost liking it, hating it but almost liking to hate it,
compacting it, reshaping it until he was almost convinced it was actually gone, feeling it
disappear with relief when he would exhale the smoke from his cigarette.
Dan started mopping the video room, starting off in the most unpopular section of the store,
the lesbian/bondage section, and worked his way over to the most popular section, the
interracial section, placing “CAUTION WET” signs in viewable places. He would back his way
up to the ATM machine, the bill breaker than eventually end mopping at the entrance to the
back of the store where the viewing booths were. He saw with pride how the wetness made
the tile shine like expensive European marble, how the drop-ceiling lights would beam off the
freshly mopped floor and cause it to glimmer like spring rain puddles. It was beautiful, it was
precious.
And then the door chime went off when a man came in wearing work boots, tracking mud with
each step, stamping down on Dan’s mopped floor, chunks of wet dirt falling off with each thud
of the boot upon the tile. The man walked into the video room. Dan felt something inside his
stomach bubbling, wiggling, breathing, moving, alive with purpose, scouring and burning the
insides of his stomach lining like acid, feeling it, knowing it was there looking for something, for
escape, tightening its hold around his heart and lungs, knowing he was breathing but feeling
his lungs vacant of air, only feeling the blinding acid hate inside. He had had enough, and
today he would act out something that was slowly ripping its way out from inside of him for
years; it needed out now.
Dan calmly placed the mop in the mop bucket and began walking into the video room. The
clerk saw Dan’s face and told him to calm down, to not do anything crazy man, chill, smoke a
cigarette, anything, shit. Dan nodded, stayed silent and continued walking into the video
room, unsure of what he was going to do, of what was going to happen.
The man went straight into the Lesbian section, quickly got disinterested and went over to the
Bi section, looked around then eventually ended up at the Transsexual section, picking up and
examining a couple of titles, Transsexual Prostitutes # 37, Big Cock Transsexuals # 2.
Dan pretended to be sorting through the DVD cases, slowly making his way over to where the
man was, hiding behind the midget porn section, the hunter stalking his prey. He waited until
all the customers left the video room.
Dan walked up to the man, said hi and hit him hard in the face with his right fist. The blood
began spilling out from his nose, down the side of his face. Dan saw the man’s mouth
beginning to form the shape of a word and he quickly hit him with his left fist on the side of his
face, then another fast right that brought the man down. He covered his face instantly with his
hands so Dan began kicking him in the chest, the ribs, the stomach, kicking repeatedly in the
same soft spot below his ribs and above his hip, then stomping on his chest and stomach,
feeling the perfect and pure rage and frustration flooding his insides, every organ, every vein,
the hate encompassing him entirely, taking over and spilling out on to the man lying down in
front of him. The man’s covering hands involuntarily went directly to his upper torso and
stomach to try to block Dan’s kicks, and when his face was unguarded he began kicking it,
instantly feeling his nose break like a wet clump of dirt, seeing all his front teeth bashed in, his
jaw broken, his mouth filling up and spewing out blood, gurgling, trying to scream but only
gurgling and crying, the blood filling up in his throat and lungs. And Dan felt the rage and
frustration focusing in, becoming more concentrated like a beam of hot light upon the man on
the floor, feeling overwhelmed with consciousness-blinding euphoria, slightly unaware of what
was going on, seeing it from a kind of third person perspective, objectively, not really feeling
the realness of it but feeling the joy burning all over his body, feeling something is being
completed, and suddenly feeling himself crying, not knowing why but feeling the hot tears
coming from his eyes; and it felt so fucking good, ALL of it, like a breath of fresh ocean air on
a hot summer day, like relief, like peace.
The clerk called the cops, the alarmed customers having told him what was going on in the
video room, but by the time they arrived (one hour later) it was too late and the man was
dead. Dan bent down, sweating, unable to stop crying, feeling so fulfilled, feeling so grateful
and at peace that he kissed and kept kissing the man’s bloodied smashed-in forehead,
incessantly whispering in his ear, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
concentrated pine-scented cleaner that most of the customers hated because they said it was
too strong and made their eyes water but the cleaners had collectively decided the stronger
the better, fuck ‘em. After he was done mopping he went to help the clerk put away empty
DVD cases (all the actual DVD discs were kept in numerical order in gigantic metal tool
cabinets behind the counter so only employees could steal them instead of customers).
His wife called every hour just to say hi and remind him that they needed diapers or milk, or
that the collection agencies were leaving nasty messages, or that the landlady is hollering
about their rent being half-a-month late already, that this time she means it, she’s gonna kick
us out, and then what? Your parents? They hate me! Yes, they do! They think I’m a dirty
spic who took their perfect Dan from ‘em and made him work mopping up shit and cum in a
scummy fuck store in North Hollywood! And Dan would let everything slide except when she
brought up his store being dirty, and he being a cleaner; he’d put his foot down and say that
he’s a security guard and that this conversation is over, DON’T EVER TALK ABOUT THE
SHOP, it’s always clean! Most customers don’t even leave a mess, they RESPECT me! And
Dan felt an overpowering rage bubbling inside of him, causing his heart to beat faster, his
brain clouding over with something, something growing bigger inside of his stomach, but he
knew how to control it and buried it deep, deep inside, pushing it far away and said, sorry, I
love you but I gotta get back to work.
The clerk asked if everything was ok, but Dan didn’t like to let his personal life get mixed in
with his work so he would always say, it’s fine, everything’s fine, burying his anger deeper and
deeper, feeling it turn into something else, almost liking it, hating it but almost liking to hate it,
compacting it, reshaping it until he was almost convinced it was actually gone, feeling it
disappear with relief when he would exhale the smoke from his cigarette.
Dan started mopping the video room, starting off in the most unpopular section of the store,
the lesbian/bondage section, and worked his way over to the most popular section, the
interracial section, placing “CAUTION WET” signs in viewable places. He would back his way
up to the ATM machine, the bill breaker than eventually end mopping at the entrance to the
back of the store where the viewing booths were. He saw with pride how the wetness made
the tile shine like expensive European marble, how the drop-ceiling lights would beam off the
freshly mopped floor and cause it to glimmer like spring rain puddles. It was beautiful, it was
precious.
And then the door chime went off when a man came in wearing work boots, tracking mud with
each step, stamping down on Dan’s mopped floor, chunks of wet dirt falling off with each thud
of the boot upon the tile. The man walked into the video room. Dan felt something inside his
stomach bubbling, wiggling, breathing, moving, alive with purpose, scouring and burning the
insides of his stomach lining like acid, feeling it, knowing it was there looking for something, for
escape, tightening its hold around his heart and lungs, knowing he was breathing but feeling
his lungs vacant of air, only feeling the blinding acid hate inside. He had had enough, and
today he would act out something that was slowly ripping its way out from inside of him for
years; it needed out now.
Dan calmly placed the mop in the mop bucket and began walking into the video room. The
clerk saw Dan’s face and told him to calm down, to not do anything crazy man, chill, smoke a
cigarette, anything, shit. Dan nodded, stayed silent and continued walking into the video
room, unsure of what he was going to do, of what was going to happen.
The man went straight into the Lesbian section, quickly got disinterested and went over to the
Bi section, looked around then eventually ended up at the Transsexual section, picking up and
examining a couple of titles, Transsexual Prostitutes # 37, Big Cock Transsexuals # 2.
Dan pretended to be sorting through the DVD cases, slowly making his way over to where the
man was, hiding behind the midget porn section, the hunter stalking his prey. He waited until
all the customers left the video room.
Dan walked up to the man, said hi and hit him hard in the face with his right fist. The blood
began spilling out from his nose, down the side of his face. Dan saw the man’s mouth
beginning to form the shape of a word and he quickly hit him with his left fist on the side of his
face, then another fast right that brought the man down. He covered his face instantly with his
hands so Dan began kicking him in the chest, the ribs, the stomach, kicking repeatedly in the
same soft spot below his ribs and above his hip, then stomping on his chest and stomach,
feeling the perfect and pure rage and frustration flooding his insides, every organ, every vein,
the hate encompassing him entirely, taking over and spilling out on to the man lying down in
front of him. The man’s covering hands involuntarily went directly to his upper torso and
stomach to try to block Dan’s kicks, and when his face was unguarded he began kicking it,
instantly feeling his nose break like a wet clump of dirt, seeing all his front teeth bashed in, his
jaw broken, his mouth filling up and spewing out blood, gurgling, trying to scream but only
gurgling and crying, the blood filling up in his throat and lungs. And Dan felt the rage and
frustration focusing in, becoming more concentrated like a beam of hot light upon the man on
the floor, feeling overwhelmed with consciousness-blinding euphoria, slightly unaware of what
was going on, seeing it from a kind of third person perspective, objectively, not really feeling
the realness of it but feeling the joy burning all over his body, feeling something is being
completed, and suddenly feeling himself crying, not knowing why but feeling the hot tears
coming from his eyes; and it felt so fucking good, ALL of it, like a breath of fresh ocean air on
a hot summer day, like relief, like peace.
The clerk called the cops, the alarmed customers having told him what was going on in the
video room, but by the time they arrived (one hour later) it was too late and the man was
dead. Dan bent down, sweating, unable to stop crying, feeling so fulfilled, feeling so grateful
and at peace that he kissed and kept kissing the man’s bloodied smashed-in forehead,
incessantly whispering in his ear, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
