Screw the Devil's Daiquiri

by Rayme Michaels

When womanizer, and possible schizophrenic, John Hazel, is suddenly offered a serious job promotion by the CEO of his company, David Wall, under the condition that John help him kill his wife, John finds himself between a rock and a hard place when Mr. Wall's wife, Victoria Wall, asks John to do the same for her.

John, an office temp, photographer and university teaching assistant of philosophy, has more than enough on his post-traumatic, hyperactive mind, without something as absurd as this weighing down on him, not to mention that he is haunted—well, annoyed more than anything—by either the spirits or imaginary spirits of Giovanni Boccaccio, Francois Rabelais and a she-devil named Sabrina. Influences such as these do not help with John's very prurient but fascinating mind, which his psychologist tries as best as she knows how to get to the bottom of.

His life-long existential crisis, having two hit men on his back, a bad-to-the-bone best friend named Alex, and a manic, sex-crazed, power-hungry, confrontational co-worker named Jackie, who happens to be Mr. Wall's mistress, certainly do not help matters either. Life does not seem to want to let up on John. Will he make it through this very bizarre time of tribulation, or will he end up behind bars, stone-cold dead, or simply cracking under the weight of it all?


Chapter One



A cross-legged kid, in front of a large TV screen, without a care in the world. It’s how he spent most of his free time. But, right now, it’s not The Price is Right, Happy Days, or Thunder Cats that he is watching. At the moment, it’s a woman’s face that appears. She’s wearing bright red lipstick that seems even brighter against her powdered white skin. The bright lights shining off of her make it seem even whiter. What is this? he thinks to himself. He wanted fun; he wanted craziness, life, laughter, magic—but this? What has this to offer him? Yet he can’t look away. Normally, if something does not catch his attention immediately, he changes the channel, meaning his attention is just what this has.

The music is soft, but building up. Does she hear it as well? Is she the cause of it? He can’t take his eyes off her lips. She swallows quickly. Why isn’t she talking? What was that stuff on her eyelids, and why did her eyelashes create that distinct black line when closing her eyes? Why werethey closed at all? And what was with those lips—those luscious, luscious lips?

His eyes jolt back up to hers because now they are open and staring right at him. He is helpless. Frozen still. They are like small pools of dark ocean water. The goose bumps wash over him like a wave from his toes all the way up to his head. He likes what he sees, but it’s the first time in his life that he knows not why. She smiles at him, so warmly and inviting. His face is still. His mouth is open. He is in a light-headed daze.

What is this? Suddenly there are more. They are standing behind a man in a suit, who is holding a mike that is attached to a stand. It’s Robert Palmer, who, prior to this moment, was completely unknown to the boy. The man’s name is irrelevant, anyway. What matters is how it’s possible that that same woman is able to appear all those times over, standing beside herself in rows behind him. I mean, it must be her, right? little John thinks to himself. She’s wearing the exact same dress, has the same perfect complexion, wears the same red lipstick and has the same hair tied back in a bun. More importantly, how did this man, whoever he was, make all this happen, and why was he in front?

The man’s voice takes over, and the women start swaying. It’s not the same woman after all. They are different—each in their own way—yet look the same. Who made them this way? Did they do it to themselves? There are five in a black dress all of a sudden, walking towards John, or so it seems, before cutting back to this supreme man with the mike and overpowering voice. Was it he who made them sway and their hips gyrate in that way? Did his voice have that power over them? It was as if they couldn’t control themselves. What was the meaning of all this heaving and grinding on each other to this enthralling rhythm that was as hypnotizing as the movements it caused in these mesmerizing creatures—these dancing mannequins?

Some even danced in the exact same way, with arms, legs and all in sync. Had they decided to do that on their own, or had someone told them to? Either way, John wants to be this man who is at the center of their attention and who implicitly held so much command over them. John does not know why he wants that, however.

Their nylons throw him over the edge. He has to squirm around on the floor to adjust himself because his “thing” is unmistakably hard, and he needs to give it room to do whatever it is that it needs to do at the moment. It’s pressed too tightly against his left thigh and it hurts. What is this hardness, anyway? It had happened before, one time when he was in the bath and thinking of some tall seductive blonde bombshell in leopard-print leotards, whom he had seen on Who’s the Boss, throwing herself at Tony Danza.

There are quick individual headshots of some of the other women. Some are looking away, and others are giving John the same look as the first one. But why? What does it mean? What do they want? Does it have something to do with their lips? Somehow it must. At least that is how it feels. All their incessant writhing and guitar-like curves are making him even harder, not to mention how perfectly round and plump their asses are. The close-ups of the lower halves of their bodies come with wave-like movements that begin at the bottom of their chests. Why are they moving like that? Just what the hell is going on here, anyway? What is all this? Whatever it is—it’s simply irresistible. But he is only six, and does not yet understand.




When John started seeing Dr. Lydia Elwick the week after his thirtieth birthday, it was more of a whim than anything else. His family physician had recommended he see a psychologist to talk things through in order to hopefully gain a deeper insight into the arcane ambiguity lingering on within him and the life that he led, and whether or not it was the life he actually wanted to lead. John took his advice under the condition that the shrink be a woman. After two months of therapy, not much had been achieved. He still was not even sure why he was there. Neither was she. One thing was for certain, however: she gave him wood. He, of course, didn’t let on to that. Unless there is no way around it, you never let them know that you are interested until you have first gained their interest. That was something he learned the hard way in life, through much trial and error.

Dr. Elwick was thirty-five years of age. She had blue eyes and always kept her black hair back in a ponytail. It was hard for John to pay attention to her when she was saying something. His eyes would always drop down towards her perfectly contoured legs that, to top it off, were always covered in black nylons that he wanted to tear off with his teeth.

She always seemed to have the same expression on her face, always keeping her composure, as if nothing could ever faze her. Her voice was always calm and soothing, and at times it gave John chills. Very nice chills. Something had to be done about this, but he knew not what. This would surely be no easy nut to crack. She was like a real-life Lilith Sternin from Cheers and Frasier,minus the annoying voice.

“Sex is a hobby and a sport to me. That’s all it is—that’s all it ever will be,” John said at this particular session. “I can’t ever get married. Monogamy means nothing to me. Fidelity is just a word to me. If I ever got married, I’d cheat on my wife so much. I’d cheat on her every chance I got. And I’d have a lot of fun cheating on my wife. I would actually go out of my way to find someone to cheat on her with. Hell, sometimes I feel like getting married just so I can have a wife to cheat on.”

Elwick fidgeted slightly in her seat, but her expression stayed the same.

John continued. “The fact that the sex would be something morally forbidden and condemned would make it all the more pleasurable and exciting for me. I know that. And I’d be damn good at cheating on my wife. I’d never get caught. And it has nothing to do with always seeking someone more attractive than the woman I’m with, no. My wife could be the most beautiful woman in the world, and I’d still have other women on the side. I mean, I never actually have cheated, but I know I would. I just get sexually bored with the same woman really quickly. Variety is something I must have in my life, and that doesn’t just apply to women. But, of course, none of this is ever going to happen—I’ll never have extramarital affairs—because I’m never going to be married in the first place. I don’t want to be that guy.”

There was a short pause.

“Time’s up, John,” she told him in her usual, unaffected voice, with a very faint, composed and polite smile.

He nodded his head. He slowly stood up, took his jacket from off the back of the chair, put it on and left her office. After he left, she got up from her desk, walked to the window and stared outside with a serene look on her face, her hands folded together in front of her.

Screw the Devils Daiquiri by Rayme Michaels


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