by Jane Brooke
She keeps looking for the stuff she will need for her little cat burglar grift.
Time to move, time to groove and a small pack stuffed with gear, long legs over the door, steel toed boots now planted on the asphalt. She turns and begins to move. To the back of her boat, Phillips Head, unscrews the license plate, same for the front, things are going swimmingly.
38 in her boot, shoulder holster and 44 back in the doll, sleek, fast is better. Phillips Head screwdriver, Slim Jim reopener jimmy in her boot too. Winching in the yips, she wades up to the rear end of the Cadillac, looks around. Like the shadows, she blends into them. Seems zilch, she bends to a black jean knee and begins.
Quickly she unscrews the plate, replaces it with her own, revolves the screw nice, tight and repeats it with the front plate, screws snug she sneaks back to her car.
Déjà-vue all over again.
She replaces plates, leans against the Caddy, nothing. She always been a screw head, messing with Tony’s electricity, re vamping CD players, fixing toasters, re programming TV’s, Black Berry Queen of a fixer do it yourself world. Anything with motors, gadgets, many hobbies for this gal; the geeks at Home Depot adored her.
Balled fists, nailed to her small hips, accomplishment washing over her, she exhales, whispers. “One thing at a time.”
The time is now. She slithers back over to the De Ville, peeks around, nothing still, music, some drunken guy retches out of the bar, bends, pukes his guts out on the parking lot asphalt. Seems he okay, back inside he goes. One more shot, one more shooter away from really feeling good, until the DT’s slam-his face in the morning. Mandal smiles, she has been there before.
Slim Jim slips down her sleeve, in the slot, a jerk and old cars are cool, easy to steal, back to work, girl thief work.
“POP”, to easy, door button pressed with a gloved finger, opens, interior light, “SMACK,” slim Jim shatters the bulb, darkness, full girl/burglar mode, pen light in her teeth. She slides in the passenger seat with a pen light in her full lips. She misses her Home Depot leather, low on the hips, gunfighter tool belt.
In a hurry now, V of a beam illuminating the glove, papers, a mess, mouth tobacco, Copenhagen, condoms, hunting knife, she steals that too; pack of Marlboros, she pockets them. There it is the registration and even the guy’s pink slip. Gomer Henry, it reads. She chuckles in disbelief, folds it, pockets it in her bomber jacket, snaps the glove shut, couldn’t be happier. Another perfect crime, except their never is a perfect fucking crime.
“You rippin’ me off, darlin?”
Southern accent, thick tongue, boozed up, a meat paw on her upper arm.
“OWE.” She yips.
He jerks her off her feet. She is violently twisted around as he slams her against the chassis of the Cadillac.
Ball cap on, face in the shadows, hard to make her MO, yet, still impossible not to see she is a slink dish, sexy is written all over her. Even a fat drunk can see that. Big man, fat man, long hair, straggling chin beard, blood coated eyes, weaving, pinchers on her arm. Her legs are spread open, steel toed boots planted on the asphalt, she’s calm, excited, no fear; adrenalin orbiting around her cerebellum.
Eyes, defiant, fucking alive, eye blisters, waiting to be popped, she’s manic and maybe some pain, his, hers, no matter. She was born for moments like these.
Limited brain matter, no gal looks at him like the cunt is. He reaches out, back hands her across the face. White dots of light, her face stings, very nice, whips back, blood on her lips, tongue tasting it; just an encore of things to come.
Wild, crazy in her eyes, now he sees she’s a beauty contest winner and he wants to rape her on the spot. He mumbles some kinda nonsense like, “You a pretty dolly, ain’t ya, gonna teach ya now somethin’ now”
He moves in, she grins, blood teeth, red lava on her brain.
“Do I know you dolly?” He slangs back at her.
She grins, smiles and says. “You do now, darlin?”
“PARUMPH” a knee jerk in the balls.
“OH FUCK” he groans.
Solid caught knee cap in the balls. He slump’s, Mandal nudges in, twists him, big belly man, lots a girth and racks him against the iron body of the Cadillac. In his face, she gets real near, rips his head back by his long hair and, then bends. With her 38 she pistol whips his face and, then plunges the tip of her 38 past 3 broken and bloody teeth. He groans, eyes the size of the flopping tip of his dick, as she seethes.
“I like foreplay big fella, in a bit of a hurry though. Real slow now Gomer, your keys. Fuck up and I’ll air you out.”
“CLICK” hammer back echoes through the night
Thumb on the hammer, big boys eyes doing the Mambo, dolls face, finger on the trigger, firing pin, baby face, bad intent in her polar ice blue oh so cold eyes.
“To the back, now Gomer.”
She like’s saying his name, she’s a twist.
“Keys, now fuck wad.”
“Gobbley gobbley” gook answer.
Thrombosis fingers dig in old Levi’s. Real slow, southern like, he lifts them, dangle, dangle, cranked up eyes, watching the angel of deaths gloved finger pressing again the trigger mechanism.
“Go on, before I put a bullet into your fat head.”
Nods, turns, her fingers ripping his pony tail, snout nose 38 pressed into the back of his head.
The journey from St. Anne’s in Montreal to Las Vegas continues.
At the trunk, key in the slot as the trunk rises like Jesus from the tomb.
“Get in.”
“WHAM.”
She cracks his skull with the teak handle of her Saturday Night Special even though it is Friday night.
He whoops, groans, his belly and face slap, crash against the carcass of his Cadillac. In sections he falls into the trunk. Leaning in, she “WHACK, WHACK, WHACKS” him.
Completely crazed, smelling blood, out of control like one of those big fucker Mako Sharks trolling for Tuna over their near the Island of Cozumel.
Up go his legs, flop, inside the trunk, she hyperventilating, lifts the 38, aim’s it at him. Jaw clenches, saliva and blood dripping down her chin, eyes stark raving mad, finger on the trigger. She wants to do it, really wants it, but then “CLICK.”
A thought wedges in. She shakes her head, blinks, rattles her brain again, remembers and tries to recall.
Murder, was that also on the menu in those past days?
Maybe so, the fat fuck is innocent. Nobody is fucking innocent, but maybe.
God forgives, so she can too.
Lowering the 38, her entire body shakes, time to jet, get it on. She slams the trunk, jilts her head, fall’s to her knees. Both hands wrapped around the 38, she shoves it in her mouth, detests herself, loves herself, presses on the trigger, love conquers all, not here, not now. She does not blow the back of her throat out.
Frankly said, she loves it all and doesn’t want to miss any future curtain calls.
Standing again, like nothing has gone down as she smile’s feeling it, feeling nice. Multiple personalities can be a hoot.
She skips back to the Deville, hops into the seat, slips down, fires her up, drive gear, cruises out of the parking lot as happy as she has ever been. In her mind there is no reason in the world that anyone could put together what she had just done or why she did it.
When a cell replicates, the DNA does not change, but merges within a blood world, hemoglobin’s saturate with memories of life, mixing, evolving and changing the makeup of a micro biotic universe and a structure of a creation in the womb.
This is the remarkable process she is consumed in, if, only Darwin was correct. If given time, as the dolphins skulls did, greater brain power through time, 50 millions years of change, yet she has perhaps days to see the miracle of life; her life appear. Perhaps time is her friend or an executione
r that will cheat her of this miracle, fate knows, but she is silent.
In a matter of moments, she is again cruising into the unknown, a girl, a Cadillac, a 44 Python strapped to her breasts, a ferocious succubus, hand gun, knives, lead pipe bombs are her guiding light into the unknown.
Next stop, well baby paradise, or New Orleans, a humid, sweating hell hole of a roll of the cubes.
Baby is moving now, moving through evolution to her destiny.
South
KICKED in, adrenaline, fear, pathos, 8 hours later, stark naked adrenaline fueling her.
Sleep, she needed it, badly, but miles had to be spun, above all she had to be ready, make sure she was armed correctly, weaponry correctly packed, loaded, at her fingertips. At any moment, soldiers, of The Fat Man could be descending; Bobby Ugo their leader, nothing less than full fire power when they did arrive would save her life.
It’s inventory time.
Convenience store, 24 hour sign illuminated, one hundred meters ahead. Feathered gas, sand eyes, a right turn, under the radar, she prowls in behind the store, finds semi darkness and shuts down the engine. A single light bulb glows, between life and death; flickering on and off like her mind.
She peels off her Bomber jacket, shivers, it is cold. Out from under the sweatshirt, shoulder holster, 44 Magnum, strapped now to her shoulders, Python in her hand, chamber open, six copper caps.
“SNAP, SLAP.” 44 in the holster, it feels right there.
First things first, maintenance, the car is a pig sty. She gathers up spent beer cans, empty bottle of Wild Turkey, cookie wrappers, potato chip bags, Twinkie wrappers, wayward chips, sweep, sweep, sweep, a leather glove broom.
She’s a nice girl cleaning up her house before the nasty visitors arrive.
Reaches back, cartridge box, open, row after row, copper, brass, smiles as she put the bullets back into the valise, 38, out of the glove box, chamber open, more death. She thinks back, no control for her brain, the man in the trunk, her finger pressed against the trigger, she wanted to do it. She didn’t.
Blink, blink, blink, she can’t remember, does not want to remember.
Has she murdered before?
Not now, brain a sizzle, later, 38 back in the glove, knife blade glints from the light, hurts her eyes; back into its sheath; back into her boot, there are other things to still do.
Thirsty, hungry, she reaches back, bag of ice, plastic bag, two tall Bud’s left. As she wraps her shaking fingers around the cold aluminum.
“POP, FIZZ.”
She drinks hard, throat burning, stomach empty; beer feels good, very good. She reaches in her pocket, Marlboro, between her lips, fire, smoke, she feels better, exhausted, but better. She remembers the showdown with the man in the trunk, giggle, bunched black leather fists as she does two air boxers lefts and rights, giggles. “No mas, no Mas.” Roberto Duran said that.
She laughs, is giddy, boxing is another one of her passions.
She is: A very different kind of gal.
Beer done, she snaps another pop top, downs half of it, more smoking and, then slowly she turns, digs deep into the valise, retrieves a small hard cover book, stares lovingly at it.
Jane’s-Explosive-Detonators-Fuses and Switches-Procedures is printed on the cover.
It is the same book that had left St. Anne’s with her over a decade ago. It was the Generals, probably never missed it. Lovingly, gloved fingers pets it, time moves, smiles, in the glove box next to new car papers, girl power 38, bombs, explosives also tantalize her mind.
Try. Try to get it together, focus, no more night dreaming.
Blue eyes peek around, stuff to get rid of. Slim Jim, bag’s of trash, tire iron is a keeper, axe handle too, lead pipes, fuses, can of gun powder, ooops, hide that too.
Caddy looks better, bat, axe handle and valise under the blanket she bought somewhere at someplace back down the road, on the floor, covered now, she exits the car.
Move now girl.
She visits a trash can, plastic bag, back to the bird, a hop, over the door, she settles in. Gloved hands, under the seat, Curevo Gold, twist the cap. She plugs from the snout, winces, feels the heat in her tiny tummy, giggles. “WHEEEE.”
She squeals as the hard drink reverberates through her bod, a woman, a little girl trapped somewhere in between.
“Ready as I will ever be.”
Whispers, bottle under the front seat, handy there, twist the key, find drive, easy now girl, leather grip on the old Plexiglas steering wheel. Gloved hands gripping, re gripping, she moves out, at the curb, look left, right, be careful, turn tight and she is gone.
Again the journey has begun.
Train Wreck
VIVID memories, like a train of never ending cars, of her past, her parents click clacked down the rails into her brain sometimes, not often.
It was different then and she had learned they were not who they were and she was not who she thought herself to be. No one, not them, not wealth, not nada could make her happy, least of all herself.
She had hand-picked her path, no regrets, no laments, it was what it was. No tears for the road she had travelled and now was travelling on.
Struggling with genius, who can handle it?
A sliced Van Gogh ear and a Hemmingway shotgun blast in the mouth and Rimbaud dead at thirty.
It’s a price madness pays for an artist’s vision, their needs, creation no less than blood in their veins.
She had talent, maybe, a brain as few possessed.
Why suicide? Why such grief? Why such pain?
She could not compare herself to those men, women, but she had talent, to compose thoughts, dream within the nether world of creativity. Maybe she was talentless, she did not know. It had to be played out.
She was a tumultuous puzzle of beauty, brains, horror, ugliness, capable of murder, other things. It had always been close, like back there, the snub nose, shoved between her lips. Why did she hesitate?
Better off being a corpse, busted back of the head from a bullet, then to slash your soul day after day.
Ritalin, Zoloft, Neurotin, Paxil, other catch words.
Her knowledge of the effects of such brain numbers, mood inducers and passion killers was the reason she had parachuted from St. Anne’s, to begin with.
Parents voices, in the shadows; she had heard them.
They were going to force feed her anesthesia, kill her, numb her, rip her mind out of her brain.
She had escaped, just barely.
What about Chopin, Amadeus, Pissarro, Baudelaire, Rodin, drugged as children, no sonnets, rhyme, paint, water lily’s recreated from water color, chiseled gods from granite, nothing of beauty, just the ordinary. A crime of genocide of talent, a loss, not for her, better a whore, naked, debased, eaten up, than some cyborg never able to dream or feel the wind of winter again.
Dawn coming, tears in her eyes, life a Ponzi Scheme running out of investors, the mauve dawn, music that always soothes the savage beast. Click the buttons, player, head phones, tiny ears connected to a massive brain.
“CLICK.”
Sade, sweet, like melodic velvet coal, wind, flowing over the Deville’s windshield, boot on the dash, 44 nestled on her lap, more tears, straight ahead, more dawn and more miles. She’s a soothed out girl again, just driving down the road.
THE SUN peeks over the horizon, sun glasses now, cold, Sun’s rays yellow on her skin. Black leather bomber, black knit skull cap, dawn and sun help fight the fatigue and chill.
Rearview mirror, eighteen-wheeler swinging out left, along-side of her, power, wind, glances from the trucker, smiles shared, knowing known, throbbing red tail light, back in, she’s drafting behind him, wonders about it all.
Truck stops and road stops and the behemoths’ coming at her and grinding on eighteen wheels
past her. 24/7 hour caravans of hard people doing a thankless brutal job. Coffee, sweet rolls, junk food, she had stopped along the way. Truck stops were the oasis’s-for these brutalized people.
Big rigs, idling diesel fuel, 18 wheel cargo loads going to Wal-Mart. Flat paneled TV’s, micro waves, frozen beef, lawn chairs, log books and weigh stations. Crystal meth too keep the eyes humming, fatigue, pain, no hope on weary faces of the truckers. She knew, knew now that it was a shadowy society of roving vagabonds crossing America in a last ditch stand of anonymous freedom. Her respect for them was growing. It was seldom given back to them by Corporate America.
HOURS LATER, tapping the steering wheel, lots a gospel hours, preachers telling of brimstone and eternal damnation, she’s already there, damnation certain is Fat Tonys’ crew catches up to her.
Country music, Johnny Cash, Gods bent message spilling from the Caddy’s radio. She needs gas, baby is thirsty, needs her fuel, so does she. Eyes focus, through the Ray Bans, JACKIES TENNESSEE MOTOR CAFE straight ahead the bill board says.
“Good enough.” She whispers.
She swings the De Ville off the asphalt, gravel road, dirt, cruises up to the pumps, cuts the engine dead.
Expeditious now, no nonsense, using doors, lady like, young attendant, black kid, overalls, great smile.
“Fill her up.”
“Yes mamm.”
Out and up the steps, layers forty bucks down, smiles, southern talk.
“Nice day, Mamm. Nice ole car ya got.”
“Yes, thank you, thank you.”
She turns, coffee, Styrofoam, sugar roll, six pack of beer, cold, a donut too, looks homemade. Back to the cash register; pony up, a dollar fifty change.
“Thank you.”
Out the door she goes, flaming in anger for she is just so fucking memorable.
NASCAR pit stop done, no tip, several men lolly-gagging around the porch, comment on her sleek bod, her looks, it’s impossible to miss her unless she is invisible, she is not.
Cadillac, coughs, this time back fires.
FUCKING LOOK AT ME EVERYONE, I’m this stunning prostitute, in this nifty car, running away from men that want to melt my face from its skull with a welding torch.
