Cheeson Muvin's lips were genetically dry; without
near-constant salve they would crack. She got lazy, they
cracked. She played with the crack with a Dalínian
masochism, using her tongue, trying to peel off the rainbow
fish scales that Sal had promised her. The crack widened,
the licking spreading the crack more than the moist spit
could penetrate the skin and act as a natural lip gloss, and
crack preventer. Having been good friends with Cheeson Muvin
for four years, mortal enemies for two weeks when she hung
out with Mikey 'Pisspants' Maguire, and good friends of a
further nine years, I knew that her obsessive nature would
have her play with the hole in her face until she had
covered the floor with flaked skin or pass out from the pain
trying.
The crack surpassed her lips, spreading down her chin,
gradually widening, gradually lengthening, never spreading
fast enough for blood to enter the equation. This was just
raw, exposed flesh being revealed over the course of a few
days, as far as the tongue could reach. There's only so much
a tongue can do, sometimes you need a finger to reach
further, to spread the crack wider, to rub away the skin,
Dalí told her to do it. Her throat joined in the subdued
violence, she peeled a line down the middle, one flake at a
time, she pulled the crack wider with thumb and swearing
finger, then scratched with finger one. Her obsession knows
no bounds: once she spent three hours picking her nose and
trimming it of every single nose hair so she was perfectly
clean inside. She continued spreading her raw painful crack
down her body everywhere she went.
If only she'd been not looking where she was going she'd
have seen the helicopter creeping up behind her on its side.
Had she seen the helicopter which really shouldn't have been
there she might well have stepped aside, saving herself from
being sliced in half lengthwise. All her careful, slow,
delicate work was suddenly undone as the... oh fuck, I'm
having her ripped in two by a chopper; this wasn't supposed
to be sexual, really it wasn't, it was just about someone
who played with a slight cut, and it got bigger and bigger,
but then something else came along and made it much bigger
than they ever could. I'd had the name Cheeson Muvin
floating in my head for a week or so, as in cheese on
muffin, because that tastes nice; Cheeson is more of a
female name than a male name, but my intended story works
equally well with a man instead of a woman, really it does.
Now instead of a strange look at corporeal obsession, I'm
left with an undisguised look at masturbation and a rather
violent loss of virginity. Sorry. Still, the rest has no
sexual undertones, because I try to help her reattach her
two halves, and that'll be nothing like a hastily stapled
together hymen, really it won't.
I sought out my magician friend who moonlighted as a hymen
darner (fiddlesticks), but sadly he specialised in a)
reattaching horizontal not vertical severances, and b)
severances that didn't really exist (although if he knew
anyone who wanted a hymen repaired he would give me a
discount because I was a friend). Poor Cheeson, the stress
of her whole adventure was really beginning to take its toll
on her, and she went into a strange catatonic, rigor mortic
(ooh that sounds a bit like more dick; work with me, people)
stare. He recommended I seek out the one they call Vulvic
Humping, a mystic from Swansea, whose mystical credentials
only amounted to him having a girl's name. Cheeson was
feeling less catatonic and less dead (I think she was
faking), so she came along with me... well, half of her came
with me because she could only hop on her right foot; I
suggested that she tried covering her other leg and jumping,
in a similar manner to how you teach people to wink (which
is only one vowel away from wank) if they're too fucking
stupid to wink. It didn't work though, so half of her came
with me, half of her tidied up the mess she'd made at home,
and all the way to Swansea we practised our winking,
although she might have been blinking, I have no way of
telling.
Vulvic Humping truly was amazing, he knew exactly what we'd
came for as Cheeson hopped into his office, we didn't need
to tell him anything. Sadly Vulvic could do no more for
Cheeson than recognising her problem; when she was told that
there was no cure for being cut in half it broke what was
left of her little heart. She died in Swansea. When Cheeson
died, a little piece of me died with her: she died rather
over-dramatically and bit a chunk out of my arm as she went
down. I had to return home and tell the other half of
Cheeson that she should be dead; when the other half of
Cheeson died, another little piece of me died with her, but
at least my arms are symmetrical now.