Vishnu Gets A Buddy
By Mike Bossick
Vishnu made his fortune in New York City selling bagels created from a special recipe decoded from the ancient and mystical Kabbalah. He used to be named Larry before affluence and boredom inspired him to become Hindu. Vishnu had abstained from sex, drugs, and alcohol, for nine years until the spirit of Mary started coming through him. Since then, it was party, party, and more partying on the West Coast.
The booze and bucks flowed when he first began trance-channeling Mary, Queen of Scots. Vishnu would don the dramatic garb of Mary and strut regally across the room muttering Shakespearean prose and New Age psychobabble. The audience of mainly petulant Beverly Hills housewives soaked in the vibrations, and reached deep into their wallets for the Cause of Mary, even though she had been a monarchist and they were mostly Republicans. Eventually, her well-funded transmigration into the hearts and minds of America would be complete
Vishnu began to do more research on just what kind of woman Mary had been. What sort of archetype had she represented? Why would so many people feel that they had been Mary, Queen of Scots, in past lives? He struggled with these and other questions in yogic seclusion, yet felt trapped in the conundrum. He vowed to find the truth, and usually it was in a bottle of Scotch whiskey.
Then the chirpy ex-sitcom star, Susan Winters, at her latest Las Vegas show, admitted to the audience that she was once Mary, Queen of Scots, in a past lifetime. It was an empowering moment of transformation for the vacationing crowd at the Flamingo Hotel that night for a convention of the National Organization For Women (NOW), and COYOTE, the California-based prostitutes’ rights group. Many women stood up that night and admitted that they too were once Mary, Queen of Scots. Catharsis crackled in the electrically charged showroom and a new sense of sisterhood emerged as NOW COYOTE.
They were on the prowl and needed to find Vishnu.
He inadvertently had given an interview to a freelance journalist who sold it to the highest bidder, which turned out to be a second rate soft-core smut paper geared for adult-film-industry patrons
Vishnu was tracked down through the fluff piece in the L.A. Singing Swingles news rag that Susan Winters had found in a dumpster behind the second act's dressing room.
When the phone rang at 2 a.m., he couldn’t actually believe that it was Susan Winters.
So many had been calling, all wanting to talk to Mary, Queen of Scots, except for the occasional person who just wanted to have phone sex.
He answered blearily.
“Hi Vishnu. This is Susan Winters. I apologize for the late hour. But I needed to talk about Mary, Queen of Scots.”
“Susan Winters?” Yeah right. “Why don’t you just send me an e-mail?”
“Seriously we need to talk. I want to do a sitcom with you. There is a powerful and lucrative message here.”
“Ms. Winters, if that is indeed who you are. Please let me go back to sleep. You sound nice and all, but…”
“I feel a natural sense of sympatico with Mary, as she embodied all that was dazed and confused. Driven to escape through debauched and depraved sex, Mary represents a power-crazed, but inept, conniving female who represents the not-yet manifested other self of aspiring gold diggers and those lusting for power.”
“I understand perfectly, Susan. Now if I could go back to sleep…”
“Sleep now, for tomorrow you will be in Vegas. It is ordained!”
“Vegas? Forget it.”
He hung up the phone and turned off the light.
He tossed and turned all night, finally waking up with a sweaty pillow. He smacked his parched lips and went to the kitchen for some wheat grass juice and a gluten bar. Suddenly, along came Mary as he downed the juice. The gluten bar dropped from his hands. When the spirit of Mary was with him, he couldn’t eat health food. She wanted BBQ pork ribs and a cup of mead. Mary usually had a gargantuan appetite. He'd put on ten pounds in the last month, after years of being on a macrobiotic diet. It was sheer obscenity at a buffet line. She was ravenous. The words, Vegas and buffet resonated in his head. After pigging out, Vishnu decided to go to Las Vegas.
It was a town of lusty appetites where the action never stopped. Vishnu felt like Sammy Davis, Jr. as he slid into the parking lot at the Sands Hotel in his Cadillac convertible. He opened the glove compartment and found his Vegas Fun Book and turned to the page with the coupons for the Sands Hotel. Free shrimp cocktail and strip show: He couldn't wait.
Feeling relaxed after the show and the shrimp, he stretched out on the Sealy Posturepedic mattress with the polyester bedspread, and flipped on the tube. There was a gangster movie on. He flipped again. There was a Doug McClure film festival on Channel 23. The movie playing was called "Warlords of Atlantis." It made Vishnu flash back into Atlantean time. Maybe if he got away from the TV, he could come back to the present.
Rocketing through a swirling, pulsating, throbbing time tunnel, he went down to the main casino and strolled through the gaming tables. Flashing through time was making him nervous and jumpy. Mary joined him a cosmic purple haze somewhere near the end of the Roman Empire. She was in another form. She was a bulimics’ encounter group counselor at a local vomitorium. Vishnu got the pukes and had to find help. When she handed him the goatskin charioteer’s sickness bag, he couldn't hide the googly eyes he had for her.
What humble beginnings for such a mighty queen. Even then she showed leadership, initiative, compassion, and massive cleavage. If only he could concentrate on her breasts, then maybe his stomach would settle and he could talk to Mary. He had to tell her about the illusive nature of reality. Like maybe this was only an amusement park for the soul.
The longing made the stomach worse and he blew chunks as he fell to the floor by a blackjack table. In his mind, Mary looked petulant and brooding. I'm sure she's used to this kind of thing, he thought.
A couple of rather large gorillas from the pit at Caesar's Palace hovered menacingly over Vishnu, as did a cocktail waitress in a slinky casino outfit. Next to exposed cleavage, she wore a rhinestone-bordered nametag that said, Caesar’s Palace - MARY. Holy Caesar’s ghost it's Mary again!
Vishnu squirmed away from the bouncers and loudly exclaimed, "What am I doing here on the floor of the casino lounge! This is an outrage! I want an attorney!" People begin gathering around and the pit boss looked nervous while motioning over Security. Vishnu glared indignantly and grabbed Mary by the arm, dragging her through the milling crowd.
Outside he flagged down a taxi and Mary said, "Wait a minute here. I just can't walk off the job."
Vishnu smiled wryly. " You're working with me now, buddy. Know how to type?"
She said, "Sure, and I make good bagels and cream cheese. But no lox, no goddamned lox"
They climbed into the cab and headed for the Sands Hotel. They began singing "Take The ‘A’ Train" and the hefty East Indian cab driver chimed in. He didn’t even know that they were making up the lyrics.
In Vishnu's room, Mary started to get herself more comfortable by removing her clothes. Vishnu had his back to her, fiddling with his laptop computer. He keyed up a screenplay that he had been writing during trance-channeling sessions. He opened a word-processing program and clicked on a folder.
The screen lit up with:
EXT NIGHT SKY
In the POCONOS there is a raging meteor shower going off like hangover fireworks in RHONDA’S blasted cranium. She shouldn't have taken the Nembutals, but had to come down off the freaky psychic Amanita mushrooms she had taken to meditate. This is established in surrealistic inner voice-over montage. RHONDA rolls over to the nightstand and grabs the PHONE, dials information, and slurs into the mouthpiece.
Get me the number for a Rogornski in Buffalo. K. Rogornski.
She had to get Rogornski to send her some more Thorazine.
She lives on Easy Street in East Buffalo. No. Operator, that' s Rogornski...not Pogornski. R-O-G-O-R-N-S-K-I. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU ONLY HAVE A LISTING FOR POGORNSKI JET SKI?
She is screaming hysterically into the phone. Then collapses into a heap on her purple crushed velvet mandala patterned comforter.
Rhonda dreams of alien light beings.
Green cigars, torsion bars, Formica tacos.
Vishnu shook his head with the realization that art imitates life. And Mary is a work of art--Reubensque. Breasts like saddlebags brushed lightly on his cheek as she read over his shoulder. His lower chakra throbbed red. Lust and desire crackled electrically in the suddenly sexually-charged atmosphere.
Mary wiggled over to her imitation Versace bag and pulled out a paperback, “The Erotica of Mary, Queen of Scots.”
Mary read sensuously, “I ache for thee. Myne mind a haze from lack of sleep and strenuous lovemaking. I do not want the cloud to evaporate. I may not be able to see thy face when I close my eyes. I see it above me, a half-light in the early morning bedroom. The soft wisps of your hair against my cheek as thou kiss me gently. I can feel your manhood gently my knight. Then the soft rhythm begins and I caress you welcomingly.”*
Vishnu closed his laptop and looked dreamily into Mary’s big brown eyes. He recited by memory the rest of the passage. Mary was coming through him again and he felt her passions as intense surreal reality replaced the cartoons in his head. He spoke deliberately,
“Myne breathing quickens. Thyne master at playing my body. Panting, sweating, stopping to catch our breath. Roll me over and put me on top. I like that feeling of giving you control. Of letting you take your knightly pleasure.”
Mary slid next to him reading as he was reciting. Their voices together were dreamlike, tantric, and resonant in two-part harmony.
“Looking into thy eyes, I open completely for you. No barriers offered by my body or my soul. I feel you looking deep inside me with each stroke of your body within mine. I want to capture you forever, my purple-helmeted warrior, my Lord.”
Vishnu tried to resist the compelling biological forces at work. Animus and anima morphed into animation as reality cartooned into desire.
He turned and kissed her with abandon. Mary let the dog-eared paperback fall to the floor and held him tightly, rocking to an unheard Salsa rhythm. Fireworks and a booming man-made volcano were going off at the hotel on the other side of the Strip, a perfect counterpoint to the explosions of unbridled fornication. Vishnu was an acrobat bouncing in the tunnel of love. He took the lovemaking seriously, yet not as seriously as Mary, Queen of Scots, and certainly not as serious as Mary of Caesar’s Palace.
They swirled on cosmic dust, falling asleep slightly shuddering, bodies intertwined, arms slightly akimbo.
While they slept, a faster and smarter, one-in-a-million magic sperm, swam with determination, stamina, and daring, intrauterine movements of grace carrying female chromosomes. The Olympian sperm imploded into the egg in record time, creating a humble beginning for the ersatz resurrection of this important queen.
Mary would greet the world like any other newborn, on a slimy cord, shrieking to high heaven. The first word she said was, “haggis” and she appropriated all the jewelry in the house. Everyone knew that the best was yet to come.
Mike Bossick is from West L.A., CA, USA. He lives in China and has lived in Reno, Seattle, Monterey, Phoenix, Vegas, Taiwan, South Korea, New Zealand, Germany, and Uruguay. He can barely speak one language
*Editor's Note: Mary, Queen of Scots, did write poetry, but not the poetry in Vishnu Gets A Buddy, which is by the story's author, Mike Bossick.
Photo "Queen of Hearts" courtesy of Emin Ozkan, Izmir, Turkey.
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