The man in the apartment next to Billy masturbated to war films. Every night he could clearly hear the sounds of explosions and moaning through the wall. Every time a building fell, every time a tank burst into flames, every time a prisoner was shot in the head for stealing a scrap of stale bread, every time a volley of bullets ripped through the thick jungle, every time the poison gas spread gracefully like a cloud over the battle field and men clutched their throats a writhed on the ground like worms in the sun, the man would roar and shout and grumble, and the floor would pound in rhythm with the rocking of his armchair.
Occasionally there would be a narrator describing the various atrocities in grim monotone. At this he would become even more aroused – grunting like an ape and screaming things at the television set… things like, “yeah, baby! That’s just how I like it!”
Billy supposed it was easier to come by than traditional pornography, as all one needed to do was flick on the History Channel or A&E or Biography, and find the screen filled with the fast, vigorous workings of war. Even now, at one o’clock in the morning, such programs were readily available for consumption by anyone who was willing to consume such things at such a late hour.
But the only thing Billy desired at this late hour was a little shut eye, and with the groaning and exploding going on next door, that was a bit harder to come by. So Billy stuffed cotton in his ears, and the screams of dying soldiers and the whimpers of perverted men were transformed into a peaceful droning that lulled Billy to sleep. |
