In which… Well, maybe we
should let him tell you.
BY BLACK NASTY
Editor’s note: We at Blurt
ask that all stories submitted for “The Most Fucked Up” be true. While we have
no doubt that “novelty rapper” Black Nasty has witnessed, or would do, some of
the things in this story, portions may be embellished for shock value. That’s
cool with us, at least in this case. In fact, we’d expect nothing less from
Black Fuckin’ Nasty. Pay him a visit at www.blacknasty.net or www.myspace.com/blacknasty.
Buy his new album, Shark Tank. And look out for his
upcoming indie film Cummings Farm. Our
man wrote that shit. Acts in it, too.
My Dad is a doctor and my Mom is a nurse and I am one of
their five children, based in Wichita
Kansas. When I was growing up my
parents were very busy so we had to have a cleaning lady. We went thru these
ladies like Kleenex, or rather they went thru us. My mother always had a pretty
good reason for firing them – Michelle was fired for binge masturbating in our
home, my Mom could tell by the “fragrance” she was leaving while
hiding in different closets and pantries. Then there was Chris, a young metalhead
with a really neat Freddy Krueger t-shirt who claimed to get turned on by
popping her boyfriend’s pimples. This made sense to me. She was let go when she
came over one morning with a Klansman tattooed on her forearm-which was
inappropriate but well done. And then there was Hong who didn’t show up for
weeks and was gonna be so fired but it turned out she had died in an automobile
accident so her termination was on a grander scale.
We finally settled on Marta, an old woman from Salvador with jet black
hair who kinda looked like Robert De Niro, same mole and haircut and faces
expressing constant dismay. She spoke several words of English and was in a
constant state of confusion. Her interpreter and lifeline was her
twentysomething daughter named Roxanne whom she lived with. Marta actually had
many, many children – she must have been quite the hot property in the village
during the turn of the century – but Roxanne was the only one in America, the
others had abandoned her for the sea. She’d had many husbands all of which were
very accident prone; they perished on train tracks or in shark mouths. But even
with a razor lined language barrier and a general disorientation she did good
work and stayed on with our clan for many years, only attempting to quit once
when she thought I had pooped on the floor to spite her (it was Patches the
Marta couldn’t drive and was either dropped off by Roxanne
or picked up by my mother. I relished Roxanne’s visits. Her thick exotic body,
luscious black hair and thick Salvadoran lips made my teenage body tremble with
wild daydreams of us doggy-styling in a volcanic crater, tropical rain
spattering her caramel breasts. Bitch was sultry! One day my mother asked me to
go pick up Marta to limpiar (clean)
but I was supposed to meet my homies at our favorite after school hangout,
Schlotzsky’s. I threw a tantrum but lost and soon found myself in my Jeep
Cherokee speeding to Marta and Roxanne’s apartment complex. I remember I was
listening to Brandy’s new cassette single “Brokenhearted,” her duet
with Wanya Morris from Boyz II Men. Typically I would sing Wanya’s part in the
car but I was too miffed to sing. Marta was fucking my shit up – I wished
terrible things upon her.
I slunk up the stairs to their casa and before my knuckles could
even hit the door it flung open and there was Marta, coiled and wet with sweat,
looking very much like DeNiro in Cape
Fear, minus the tattoos. She was screaming – but I knew it wasn’t Spanish.
She was screaming in tongues, I knew cuz she was flicking her tongue in and out
of her mouth and then back and forth, like a giraffe being strangled. She was
half dressed, her pendulous breasts (which before had gone unnoticed) were
fighting under a long purple t-shirt. She grabbed me like a vacuum and pushed me
across the apartment which smelled like Mexican food and made my stomach growl.
This was all happening so fast and I was a German student so I couldn’t even
ask her what was wrong in broken Spanglish – I guess listening to all that
Gerardo in middle school hadn’t paid off!
She pulled me into the bathroom, pointing, saying, “She
sleep, she sleep!” I finally caught on-she was trying to show me something!
Good girl, Marta. So I looked. It was Roxanne. Dead. Naked. In the tub. I took
a step back. I took a step forward. Oh fuck… muerte! Marta disappeared and I sat slowly on the edge of the tub
and looked at Roxanne, floating, soulless. Her lips were purple, doll eyes,
arms in a state of retardation. Holy shit, Marta killed Roxanne! I started to
mildly panic, fearing for my well being, but Roxanne’s naked corpse was
distracting me. I squeezed Roxanne’s big toe hard to see if she moved-she
didn’t. Nice toes, I thought. Oh Roxanne, this was not how I pictured our first
bubble bath, I thought as I fought the urge to disrobe and get in.
Suddenly Marta busted into the bathroom, “I’m dead now,” I
thought, resigned to it by teenage apathy. But no, Marta was wielding a bottle
of rubbing alcohol which she poured into her hands and started slathering all
over her dead daughter’s tight body. Then I heard a sound like air being let
out of a tire – it was Roxanne! I put my face near hers and could hear shallow
gurgling breaths. ¡Ay caramba!
I whipped around and told Marta to call 911 and she cocked
her head like a curious dog. Fine, I would do it. I went to the kitchen to the
find the phone, a food encrusted portable that was either dead or out of
service. I went back into the bathroom where Marta had continued her rubbing
alcohol revival method (not working) and told her I was going to find help. I
walked across the street to the Quiktrip and called 911 from a pay phone, not
knowing the address or apartment number I waited on the line until they could
trace my location. Then I bought a Snapple and some Nibs.
I didn’t stick around much longer, my work there was done.
My mother later told me Roxanne had died shortly thereafter – a brain aneurysm
it turns out. She said I had done the right thing and commended me on it but I
could tell underneath her faint praise that she wasn’t so sure – being a nurse
she probably thought Marta and I were incompetent, which I completely resented.
Marta never returned to work and we found a new lady named Sherry who had
herpes but often brought donuts.
Stories of Marta’s mental unraveling became speculative
legend in the family. Without Roxanne, her primary caregiver, driver and
translator Marta was lost, floating in space, alone and broken in a strange
land. Sometimes when I would return home from college I would be driving down
the street and see her walking along the road aimlessly. I would honk and wave
and remember the day we bonded over life’s cruelest trick. I pined for Roxanne
occasionally and would become morose that such a beautiful creature would be
taken from me, before she could see my novelty rap career earn online praise
and sell dozens of albums.
It was the most fucked up thing I had ever seen – it was the
first time I had seen a naked dead woman. Little did I know it would not be the