Dumble One and Dumble Two, playing with sex [Issue 4]

  Dumble One and Dumble Two [or the same Dumble?] playing with sex.


                                      Written by Richie Dowling    

The tunnel squeezed the car in its fist. Concrete walls and neon wall-lights swept aside the glistening trees and rain-soaked fields, and in the gloom Dumble noticed the clock on the dashboard. 12:34. He was going to be late and she’d be angry, as always, but the limit in a tunnel was 90kph so he kept the needle of the speedometer safely at that mark. Before him, the darkness stretched on forever.  


                And then at last the fist opened to reveal a blue sky plump with clouds, and eucalyptus trees whipping past on both sides. He flicked off the lights and shifted in the seat to get comfortable.

                A car was up ahead, the first he’d seen in twenty minutes. It was an old Polo like his own, same colour even. Grey.

                Daylight faded as he got closer. Dark clouds were blotting out the sun. So much for a dry winter. It had rained almost all of December.

                He felt his car slowing down and he realised that, even though his eyes couldn’t detect it, he was in fact going uphill, that sometimes the road was deceptive. 

                The car ahead was having trouble too, and Dumble could almost make out the number plate. And then he was close enough so he decided to read. C1001 DG.

                That couldn’t be right. That was his number plate. He checked again, sure he’d made some kind of mistake.

                No. The number plate was definitely the same as his own. Some overpaid funcionario had made a balls-up. That was it. Or perhaps they were false number plates? To keep the police off the trail?

                He checked his rear view mirror. No traffic behind him and the road ahead clear except for the Polo in front. A Polo with the exact same number plate as his own.

                He swerved into the left lane, urging his car on as fast as it would  go and fighting every inch of ground until he was drawing level with the other car. And then he saw the man in the front seat. He’d wanted to know if the man was some kind of criminal, someone dangerous. But he almost choked when he saw the other driver.

                The car shook and rattled and Dumble cursed; he’d let his hands slip off the wheel. A bend was coming up and he’d almost driven straight into the barrier at the side of the road. He grabbed the wheel and jerked the car back on course. 

                The other Polo was behind now, in the right lane. Dumble flicked on his right indicator and changed lanes. Not getting too far in front. He had to look. Had to see again to make sure. But he couldn’t make his eyes look into the rear view mirror.

                He snarled, forced himself to look. There in the thin rectangle he saw the car behind, and another Dumble in the driver seat. He looked away. It must be some trick of the light. The guy just looks a little like me, he thought. He can’t be me. I’m here.

                When he looked back the car was gone. But then he saw in his left wing mirror the Polo was now overtaking him.

                He glanced to his left as the car passed and saw himself sitting serenely in the other car. 

                He gritted his teeth. This was a hallucination. It would end soon. It had to. The only thing he had to do was focus on driving and make sure he didn’t crash.

                The Dumble ahead flashed the indicator. They were near the exit for Cedeira. Dumble flicked the indicator on and took his foot off the accelerator. He swooped to the right and up the hill, shifting down gears as he went. How far was the other Dumble going to go? Was he going to Cedeira?

                They reached a roundabout and he saw the other Dumble taking the same right that he would take.

                A vision of his wife and child greeting the other Dumble made him hit the accelerator. He had to overtake and get there first.

                But then he saw the other Dumble had his indicator light flashing a right turn before a fork in the road. That was strange. The way to Cedeira was to the left. He’d never taken the right turn. Where was the other Dumble going?

                Curiosity got the better of him and he decided to follow.

                The road twisted and turned through narrow country lanes. Eventually, Dumble knew he was completely lost. Where was that other Polo going?

                 The car ahead flashed a right turn. A yellow neon sign pumped ‘Relax‘ into the grey sky about a half kilometre down the road. Places like those had little to do with relaxing. The Spaniards called them ‘puti clubs‘. A friend of his had told him all about these places. Dumble had never been to a puti club.

                But the other man was pulling in there now.

                Dumble flicked the indicator switch. He wasn’t going to go in, of course. The other Dumble was going in. He was just going to wait outside and see that he went in. Then he was going to leave and get as quickly as possible to his family.

                The puti club looked like a run-down hotel building with three floors and lots of glass windows—all of which had dirty blinds. The other man had parked and was getting out of the car.

                Dumble hit the brake and the discs screeched, but the other man didn’t react, just kept walking. Dumble found a parking space and eased his car in.

                He looked at the entrance. Another neon sign said, ‘Club Alexandra’ and a yellowed poster proclaimed the best girls from Latin America as well as a special offer: ‘Beso Negro Gratis—¡es Navidad!‘. A free black kiss—it’s Christmas. What the hell was a black kiss?

                The other man, the other Dumble, what was he doing now? He’d gone inside, probably got himself a beer. Then what? How did it work? Were the girls all lined up at the bar? Or did he have to go upstairs? Could he choose? Or did he have to go with whoever was free at the time.

                The car park was filled with vehicles, from battered old farmers’ vans to brand new Audis. The place obviously did a lot of business. But Dumble wasn’t going to go in. He had a wife and a son and he loved them very much so he wasn’t going to go in.

                But the other Dumble had gone in.

                Was that a movement in one of the windows? He thought he’d seen a blind flicker. Maybe Dumble was in that room. With a beautiful Cuban girl. Perhaps she was wearing stockings and suspenders. Waiting on the edge of the bed, with her breasts cupped in a tight bra. Dumble would come closer and the Cuban girl would smile, beckoning him on with her finger. Dumble placed a hand on her thigh, feeling the sheen of the stocking fabric, sliding his hand further up until he’d reached the edge of the stocking and the flesh of her thigh. Then she leaned forward and kissed him, he could feel her warm breasts against his chest. He stood back and took off his shirt, then kicked off his shoes. She knelt down in front of him and undid the zip of his Levis. She slid his underpants down along with his jeans and his cock was bursting. She looked up at him with big brown eyes and then wrapped her lips around his dick. Her hands came around his back and her fingernails dug into his bottom.

                In the car, Dumble felt himself getting hard thinking about it. Sinking into the coffee-coloured flesh. It would be glorious.

                A few minutes later the entrance doors opened and the other Dumble came out. But he didn’t look right–his face was ashen and he was staring at the ground. Then he stopped, his arms flailed out to the sides and he threw up onto the tarmac.

                And in that moment Dumble realised it hadn’t been glorious at all. It had been a half-starved immigrant girl who had probably been conned over to Spain with the promise of a job and forced to wank-off old farmers, with no money to spend on food and a heroin addiction that would keep her here, in a room that stank of sweat and come, and she hadn’t been wearing silk stockings, she’d been wearing filthy tracksuit bottoms and when he’d got his dick out she’d clawed at it with a blank expression thinking of nothing because nothing was better than what was going on. It wasn’t glorious, it was disgusting. And that was why he was puking his guts up on the ground.

                 Dumble turned the key in the ignition. The other Dumble looked up and their gazes met. He saw a look of shame, a pleading for forgiveness. But Dumble could offer him nothing. He slipped into first gear, his feet squeezing down first on the clutch and then the accelerator. He roared out of the car park and into the maze of country lanes. He didn’t know exactly where he was going, but he knew how he wanted to get there.


Note: TWINS or DOPPELGANGERS have been done well in the following:


The Double – Old Fyodor Dosty writes his second book and disappoints most Russian critics by tackling the doppelganger theme. I think it’s quite good though. Elliptical ending, a woody Allen neurotic as the main character, the double being more devious than evil…it’s good stuff.


Double Impact – Van Damme obviously read Dostoyevsky and wanted to explore the theme further. Slightly less elliptical as the twin brothers learn to love each other and bring in two villains to beat the shit out of. Entertaining.


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