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Description
I bought the soul of the fortune teller for $25. The fortune teller was a woman. Anyone could tell by the hourglass shaped bottle and the scent inside. I opened up the bottle on the subway inside its little paper bag like so many winos before me, and I let the scent sink into my coat, so I could smell it when bottling the cheap watered down souls at the factory.
For a month or so after I bought the fortune teller's everlasting soul, I'd open it up at parties whenever I got a little bit drunk, and take a swig, swilling the soul in my mouth like I was at a wine tasting, and letting her consciousness and eternal salvation sink into the capillaries in my mouth and take over my body for a little while. I remembered my 8 children, and I read palms until everyone around me passed out. Every time I would drink her soul, the mantra that she repeated when she died played continously in my head: Joel, Santiago, Peter, Mary, Mary Magdalene, Simon, Arthur, Katherine Mary, find them find them find them. When I woke up the next afternoon, with that horrible feeling of my own sweat all around me, I'd have bits of my friends' hair and skin clutched in my still-drunk hand, to make voodoo dolls I would never know how to make.
When the fortune teller's soul bottle empties, so does the parlor trick. Every time this happens I swear that it's the last time , and I'm saving up for a famous person's soul. I read about how Princess Diana's soul is empties out drop by drop on the twentieth anniversary of her death, and there's a great party and all the guests go out to help starving children in Africa or something like that. I want to have a party like that, with Don King's soul, so we can go out and bet on boxing matches.
For the next couple months, I steal wholesale soul bottles at the factory. These souls are from the condemned. Hobos, old people giving their bodies for science, any souls we can steal we use, diluting it with pig soul to get full use out of them. These souls are not pure and just get your confused, and you have to drink them fast before they evaporate into that sickly sweet smell like my great grandmother's funeral with the fake perfumed flowers.
One night, I sneak into the soul bleeding room and prick my finger, and taste my own soul. It tastes like my pillow when I wake up after a night of heavy soul drinking, and this disgusts me.
My friend David is a pedophile. He invites me over to his new house, the one he got after getting out of soul correction therapy which doesn't work. I expect his house to be black and painted with the blood of puppies, but it isn't. It's bright and flowery and smells like air freshener. I'm sitting on his couch, watching the door in case I have to bolt and he swaggers in with a shot glass of a steaming frothy mixture and he says Man, man, you've got to try this. He exhales and some of the steaming mixture is blown out, it's that light, and it hits the floor and evaporates. David the Pedophile speaks again and says Soul of a virgin, fresh. He says Bottoms up and smiles and winks, and drains the whole shot glass. I stand up and step for the phone because I know he killed a girl and I call the police and he sits there calmly, holding his shot glass like he's at a tea party. The girl's father comes before the police and throws David on the ground and starts hitting him and saying You son of a bitch, why why why why? And David the Pedophile is drunk from the soul and says Daddy, why are you hurting me? This hurts the father the most and he starts crying.
I smell David at work, before the cap goes on the bottle and it moves down the assembly line to be stamped and shipped. The souls are frothy and steaming. This is the secret, those 45 seconds of air that helps them be mixed up completely. I take the bottle off the line and swill it around and chug it down right there, and I'm trying desperately to feel for David the Pedophile, to know what he was thinking before they killed him and all I can get is this oinking and I know that it's the pigs, and David's just a smell. I've already had the breakdown that everyone has working in this factory, the realization that no matter what your mother tells you at your great grandmother's funeral, there'll be nothing left but a smell smelled by a factory worker so people can drink your everlasting salvation. They have psychiatrists on call around the time everyone realizes this, and a lot of people quit because they think God will be mad at them for destroying His property.
So I'm fired from my job after getting drunk off of pig and pedophile soul and going to the break room crying and saying that I had a pedophile in me and it's not right. And I buy the souls of a Kenyan runner, a math teacher, a police officer, and a daredevil. I mix them together and they hiss and froth, and I imagine that in Heaven or Hell these four men are in a conference room together going Hello, hello, how are you? And I take a shot of these souls, and I don't feel anything special, except maybe I can run a mile or do long division or shoot a gun. And I have this overwhelming desire to go into David the Pedophile's house, which is still empty. I break into his house and I lie down on his bed and I smell David the Pedophile everywhere. And for the first time, I'm overwhelmed by my sense of smell, and I sink my head into his pillow and breathe.

Description
I bought the soul of the fortune teller for $25. The fortune teller was a woman. Anyone could tell by the hourglass shaped bottle and the scent inside. I opened up the bottle on the subway inside its little paper bag like so many winos before me, and I let the scent sink into my coat, so I could smell it when bottling the cheap watered down souls at the factory.
For a month or so after I bought the fortune teller's everlasting soul, I'd open it up at parties whenever I got a little bit drunk, and take a swig, swilling the soul in my mouth like I was at a wine tasting, and letting her consciousness and eternal salvation sink into the capillaries in my mouth and take over my body for a little while. I remembered my 8 children, and I read palms until everyone around me passed out. Every time I would drink her soul, the mantra that she repeated when she died played continously in my head: Joel, Santiago, Peter, Mary, Mary Magdalene, Simon, Arthur, Katherine Mary, find them find them find them. When I woke up the next afternoon, with that horrible feeling of my own sweat all around me, I'd have bits of my friends' hair and skin clutched in my still-drunk hand, to make voodoo dolls I would never know how to make.
When the fortune teller's soul bottle empties, so does the parlor trick. Every time this happens I swear that it's the last time , and I'm saving up for a famous person's soul. I read about how Princess Diana's soul is empties out drop by drop on the twentieth anniversary of her death, and there's a great party and all the guests go out to help starving children in Africa or something like that. I want to have a party like that, with Don King's soul, so we can go out and bet on boxing matches.
For the next couple months, I steal wholesale soul bottles at the factory. These souls are from the condemned. Hobos, old people giving their bodies for science, any souls we can steal we use, diluting it with pig soul to get full use out of them. These souls are not pure and just get your confused, and you have to drink them fast before they evaporate into that sickly sweet smell like my great grandmother's funeral with the fake perfumed flowers.
One night, I sneak into the soul bleeding room and prick my finger, and taste my own soul. It tastes like my pillow when I wake up after a night of heavy soul drinking, and this disgusts me.
My friend David is a pedophile. He invites me over to his new house, the one he got after getting out of soul correction therapy which doesn't work. I expect his house to be black and painted with the blood of puppies, but it isn't. It's bright and flowery and smells like air freshener. I'm sitting on his couch, watching the door in case I have to bolt and he swaggers in with a shot glass of a steaming frothy mixture and he says Man, man, you've got to try this. He exhales and some of the steaming mixture is blown out, it's that light, and it hits the floor and evaporates. David the Pedophile speaks again and says Soul of a virgin, fresh. He says Bottoms up and smiles and winks, and drains the whole shot glass. I stand up and step for the phone because I know he killed a girl and I call the police and he sits there calmly, holding his shot glass like he's at a tea party. The girl's father comes before the police and throws David on the ground and starts hitting him and saying You son of a bitch, why why why why? And David the Pedophile is drunk from the soul and says Daddy, why are you hurting me? This hurts the father the most and he starts crying.
I smell David at work, before the cap goes on the bottle and it moves down the assembly line to be stamped and shipped. The souls are frothy and steaming. This is the secret, those 45 seconds of air that helps them be mixed up completely. I take the bottle off the line and swill it around and chug it down right there, and I'm trying desperately to feel for David the Pedophile, to know what he was thinking before they killed him and all I can get is this oinking and I know that it's the pigs, and David's just a smell. I've already had the breakdown that everyone has working in this factory, the realization that no matter what your mother tells you at your great grandmother's funeral, there'll be nothing left but a smell smelled by a factory worker so people can drink your everlasting salvation. They have psychiatrists on call around the time everyone realizes this, and a lot of people quit because they think God will be mad at them for destroying His property.
So I'm fired from my job after getting drunk off of pig and pedophile soul and going to the break room crying and saying that I had a pedophile in me and it's not right. And I buy the souls of a Kenyan runner, a math teacher, a police officer, and a daredevil. I mix them together and they hiss and froth, and I imagine that in Heaven or Hell these four men are in a conference room together going Hello, hello, how are you? And I take a shot of these souls, and I don't feel anything special, except maybe I can run a mile or do long division or shoot a gun. And I have this overwhelming desire to go into David the Pedophile's house, which is still empty. I break into his house and I lie down on his bed and I smell David the Pedophile everywhere. And for the first time, I'm overwhelmed by my sense of smell, and I sink my head into his pillow and breathe.