Inverted Hedgehog

After a long time, Pocketface Pete knows where his face is. It’s in a ball. A basketball, to be more precise. He can see it clearly from here; it and him, the boy called Jimmy who loves it so much he takes it to bed with him. He calls it ‘his round friend’. Sometimes he calls it Rodrigo, but not too often.

It’s sunny right now and white and golden stripes are reflected from the single hoop on a stripeless basketball court Jimmy’s father had made for him in front of their house. The kid was so lonely, the poor guy tried everything. He tried video games, puppies, loud music, and trips to Indonesia, but nothing worked. His little Jimmy stayed the saddest kid he had ever seen, staring at walls 24/7. He would listen to everything his parents would tell him to do, except have fun. Whatever he did, he did it with a complete and absolute lack of enthusiasm. It was like he was already dead inside. That wouldn’t be a problem if the kid was 47 years old with a stable career in accounting, but he’s only twelve and a part of a loving semi-rich family. Everything should be fine. Rich people are supposed to be happy.

At least his pops had enough money and time to continue experimenting. Once he even killed a sheep in front of the kid, and smashed her skull with a hammer, just to see the reaction. Nothing. The kid just stared at him, like he was at a really boring party that for some reason included a piñata.

There was something abnormal about Jimmy, that was clear. And somehow, his pops figured that the kid needed something equally unique. He got some ideas during his surgeries. After a normal plastic surgery, there’s always some meat left. Some skin or tissue. Sometimes teeth. There was this one old lady, who wanted smaller breasts. Said that old age is getting to her and her back are starting to hurt and everything is just shit all of a sudden. Her breasts were good once, she said, but now it’s just a lot of nothing in front of more nothing. So he sliced them open, poor old pops, and made them half smaller. The old lady was happy, and he thought that maybe, just maybe, he could do something with the remains. He was a great surgeon, but hardly an artist, so in the end everything he got was a pile of dark red tissue on his table. He asked his son to see it, but the kid was not impressed. “These are 60-year-old ex-breasts, son,” he said. Jimmy just shrugged.

Next thing, this kid comes and says he wants just one change on his body. He didn’t even need to be precise about it, because half of this guy’s face is just huge, like his left cheek was somehow pulled and pulled until it started to look like a sack. He wants a normal face, the kid says. He wants to look like a normal person. Easy procedure, old pops were done in a few hours, and then went home with a meter of skin. It was smooth on the outside and on the inside. There wasn’t enough saliva to keep it wet when it was still attached to the head so now it was almost like a sheet. Pops didn’t even need to think twice, that was great basketball material right there. So he paid some good money and there it is, a brand new kinda-weird-colored basketball. But it worked quite well. Not only that, but the kid smiled when he got it. He actually smiled. Old pops straight away started making more balls with the same material, but the kid ignored those. It was just him and his basketball called Rodrigo. His round friend. Old pops didn’t mind. It was good enough if you asked him. He thought he would go crazy, but he did his job like the great father he was. At that point, he was finally able to start his bee business.

Little Jimmy was completely entranced with the ball. He was, usually, a horrible player, but now, with this ball, every throw would go straight into the hoop. He didn’t miss once. It was a magic ball and it gave him superpowers.

One night, he was just hugging Rodrigo in front of the house, when he saw a falling star. It was the first time in his life that he actually wanted something, so he closed his eyes and whispered: “I want my round friend to have a voice.”

Not even a minute later, Rodrigo was talking about geometrical objects and how cubes are overrated. Jimmy didn’t even care about what they talked about, he just loved the way Rodrigo’s voice sounded, nice and silky. They would talk all night sometimes and there were never awkward silences, or silences in general. With the right wish, the whole world becomes vibrant and colorful. Everything was perfect.

Well, at least until Pocketface Pete came to get his face back. He was a nice guy, once. But right now that seemed a long, long time ago. He was famous in high school. That’s where he got his nickname. He was cool because he was the only kid that didn’t need a backpack. He would carry his books in his face bag, his back completely free. He was a legend and girls loved him. This one chick, Monica, she pushed her whole arm into his face. Said she was a skin fetishist and that he was perfect for her. She would cover her face with his face while he was fucking her. She would bite on his skin so hard he would scream, but she didn’t care. Her teeth were always bloody after sex and soon he couldn’t take it anymore and dumped her. That just made him more legendary, because Monica was the foxiest chick in school and men’s drool was all around her. She lied and told everyone that she just wanted to pull a prank on him. Said that he was obviously disgusting and “please”. No one believed her, though. They saw how she licked his face in public. Jokes don’t go that far, not even bad ones. That broke her reputation. Soon she was fucking a janitor, she couldn’t find better. Pete, on the other hand, fucked everything that moved. He would always have a pack of condoms in his face bag.

He got cocky, after a while. Started to love his reflection so much he thought he would be beyond perfect without the deformity. Like, soon, after the operation, he’ll be fucking Cate Blanchett and marrying Naomi Watts, that’s how hot he’ll be.

So he removed the skin and became invisible.

That’s why he’s here right now, in front of the house, with a gun in his hand. It’s a ball now, but he’ll find a way to stick it back to his face. It’s a 21st century, everything is possible.

He wouldn’t even know about the ball if the surgeon hadn’t sent him a thank you card, explaining everything. ‘You saved my life’, the cards said, ‘and I hope I saved yours.’ But no one’s life was saved. Not yet.

In the small basketball yard, kid is playing by himself and he’s crazy good, hitting every hoop just perfectly. He would probably be a good fit for the NBA. That doesn’t stop crazy Pocketface Pete. He just comes close and lifts his gun and yells: “Give me my fucking face back.”

That takes Jimmy’s attention, and he turns, not a reaction on his face. Of course, it’s not his fault, he doesn’t know there’s most of this guy’s face on his ball. To him, Rodrigo is just a friend, nothing else. His not knowing the context doesn’t change Pete’s point of view. Pete yells: “I can’t fuck without it, kid!” Jimmy doesn’t even know what fucking means, not that he cares. Pete continues: “That ball. I want it. I want that ball and I want it back on my face, tomorrow.”

Little Jimmy said maybe a 1000 words in his whole life. He’s not much of a talker, but this time, he opens his mouth and whispers: “No.”

“Does this gun situation look debatable to you? I’ll get the ball, that’s for sure, you getting the bullet, now that’s optional.”

But Jimmy doesn’t care. And he never misses. That’s why he swings the ball and throws it right at Pete’s face. That will knock him the fuck out. Only that doesn’t really happen, because the ball does an impossible turn and flies up and enters the hoop.

“What the fuck was that?!” yells Pete.

“Well, that was a pretty intense curvature”, says Rodrigo, and Pete pulls the trigger that blows half of Jimmy’s head.

Pete starts running away pretty much immediately, not caring about his face anymore. In the background, someone is talking something about rectangles and how they aren’t as overrated as cubes, but certainly aren’t as good as triangles. That same voice adds: “If you’re catching my drift.”

That same day poor old Jimmy’s pops had an accident with bees and got stung 263 times. His whole body hurt and for a while, he was certain that what he was going through was the biggest pain in his life. Just a few hours later he’ll get home and realize that everything he felt before was equal to floating on a cold lake with fluffy clouds above him. If anything, bees were just trying to be merciful and spare him of his upcoming misery. But it takes more than 1500 stings to kill a man and at under 300 it’s just a sympathetic pat on the back.