Three is the magic number


It's all about 3.

Ever since I can remember all the really good and bad things in my life have come in threes.

My twin brother died when we were three.

I have three fingers on my right hand, having cut the pinky and ring finger off on a paper cutter in my christian high school.

They said I was crazy and locked me up in a state run funny farm, where they gave me drugs that made my veins turn inside out and come out of my body like snakes. I'd wake up screaming on my cot, covered with my own veins like blue spaghetti.

The attendants pretended not to see it. They strapped me down just like in the movies.

I was there for three months.

Meanwhile, I became a legend at my old school. Three other kids, losers all, cut off their fingers in solidarity. They also used the paper cutter.

I've gotten used to not having those fingers. For example, when I take off my new-fangled glove, I've got the perfect tool for finger fucking. Just the right amount--and I don't have to worry about bending the other two back.


Three years ago I lived in England and totalled three cars in three months.

An old ass Austin.

A brand new Peugeot.

And a Ford hatchback which was unfortunately a company car, the owner of which was not with us.

Each time there were three of us in the car:



and me, Sterling Fassbinder.

The last time, we were drunk on beer and Greek liquor. We were singing crazily along with the radio as we raced down Ladbroke Grove. I remember the street lights passing in slow motion. Flourescent egg yolks: tremulous and glowing...I could smell the gasoline burning but we weren't getting anywhere.

The song was "Two of Us", by the Beatles. Only we changed it to "Three of Us":

Three of us riding nowhere
Spending someone's
Hard earned pay
Three of us Sunday driving
Not arriving
On our way back home
We're on our way home
We're on our way home
We're going home

I was in the back and TRUE was in the passenger seat and Fitz was driving, as usual. Thank God the streets were empty because we were all over them. The last thing I remember before we hit the divider was TRUE turning back to ask me for a light. That's when she smoked the Dunhill greens. The only menthols I could ever stand. Over her shoulder I saw the bright glow of the traffic triangle filling up the bottom half of the windshield.

"Oh, God!" I heard someone yell. I still don't know who. Everything was completely detached in that moment. Like watching TV on heroin. I was floating over the scene. It might even have been me who said it.

In the next moment there was a loud crunch, followed by an immense thud that threw everything forward.

I remember thinking, very clearly that I needed to watch out for my teeth

fucking hell, fitz...

I was catupulted into the back of TRUE's seat. The right side of my face smacked into the metal frame of the head rest. The part where you adjust the height of the cushion. Then, just as violently, I was whipped back. A liquid splashed around the inside of the car that I immediately recognized as blood.

It was all over my arms, which were lying on my lap, straight and white and dead as doll arms.

I shut off for a second. When I came back the car doors were open. Something on the dashboard was chiming but other than that it was very quiet.

"C'mon, time for a hotel," Fitz was telling me. His eye was black and oozing.

I looked around and TRUE was hunched over beside him. For a second I couldn't see her face.

Her beautiful, angel face. Suddenly, I feared the worst...

"Hey, hey..." I called out, my voice weighted with concern.

She straightened up and to my relief and embarrassment she exhaled a puff of smoke in my direction.

"I found a lighter, " she said, wobbling about, uncertainly.

There wasn't a mark on her.

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