by Jane Brooke
“Hey, that’s funny, across the street. ...Sheet...Only snakes and lizards live over there.” Laughs, grins,
“Sheeet, ya had me goin’ fer a minute.”
She actually likes the quick to laugh tree, she softens.
“Pennsylvania, on my way to LA.”
Billy, mesmerized, havin’ a good head bobbin’ time, smiles, thrust, slots the key, opens the door, sweeps his arm, struts a bit.
“Long way from home...Huh?”
Mandal, peeks in the tired room, lone bed, dresser, wall mirror, two chairs, end table, lamp, got a swamp cooler in the wall, bathroom off the torn carpet, two windows, small fridge, stove plate, she mumbles.
“Not far enough.”
Billy sets the bag down, feels something, turn, stares off, Mandal follows his gaze, gasps. A skinny old man, white hair, bag a bones, bright blue lips, steps from an Air Stream. He falls on his face, vibrates, stands, weaves, moon gazes, u-turns, back in the aluminum he goes.
“Oh that, jest ole Doctor Earl, friend a the family.”
Oh Okay, that explains everything. Mandal groans to herself.
Billy plops the bag down, hands in his pockets, looking happy like his mother just gave him a reload for his handgun.
Mandal, feels like screaming, crazy, something she doesn’t need. Billy, to the swamp, turns it on, turns, gawks at her, and says. “Swamp. I’ll keep ya cool enough. Ya can get some food in the cafe, bar later, can be fun.”
Mandal thinks about the beat to hell Bikers.
“Ain’t much a room, but I’ll keep the flies’ outta yer mouth.” He jokes.
Mandal giggles, digs around the fanny pack, grabs a fiver and extends it to him.
“Thanks, thanks for the help with the bag.”
Billy, chewing gum, whips out the comb again, streams the teeth through the black, grins.
“Naw, don’t need it...Tol ya, all a this mine. Plenty a money too.”
Money, she likes money.
She sees Billy as another defender for her escape, her survival. If need be she’ll fuck him too. Make him a love sick rabid dog, unleashed, just may save her life.
Scrutinize, probe, store it all in the hard drive, down load it later. Marlboro out of her tummy pack, between the guava lips, “FLICK” flame, inhale like Lauren Bacall, real slow, now the doll, smoke like semen drippin’ from her pouted up lips.
“Ya got a good thing goin’ here, huh Billy?”
Bulge in Billy jeans, those fucking lips, that little girl body, mouth, oval eyes, his head is spinning. Hard fuckin’ and maybe some suckin’ later on his mind. He chews it up, the pink gum, smiles.
“This ain’t nothin’ Betty. Am makin’ so much Mon....Aaaah...”
He decides, in a rare moment of sanity, to keep his mouth shut.
“How bout one of them Marlboro’s?”
Smokes flipping in the air, Billy catches them, flicks one out, between movie star lips. Zippo in the air and another catch and to her he looks like he coulda been an outfielder for the Astro’s, stead of a violent sociopath.
Flames, blue and orange, inhale, exhales, he’s a real cool momma’s boy.
Billy revolves the Zippo in his palm. He looks at the red dragon decal, say’s. “Thanks’ Betty, like yer lighter.”
FATE SEALED for Mandal at this moment, though it will be some time before she knows it.
“Why thank you Billy. Was my fathers. A military man.
She’s goes to say more, less is always better, half truths, whole lies; even she can’t keep up with them it all at times.
She wants to continue the grift, but two pick-ups roar up to the bar. Loud, good natured, several oilmen, their woman, Friday night hair, dresses, squaw paint, men, special duds, polyester, white shirts, good sneakers, laughing, joking, move into the bar.
“Them, is oilmen, from Texaco, good people. Now Betty, ya listen. Anythin’ a tal ya need, ya jest ask Billy, Okay darlin’.”
He looks at the smoke, back at his new gal. In his mind their almost goin’ steady.
No guesses, in Mandals mind what anything means is what she wanted to hear as she drags at smoke.
She billets it white haze in her long neck, real slow like, it drifts out of her tiny nose. A seductive smile follows.
“Why thanks cowboy. If I need a lasso I know who to ask.”
Playing him, a little bit attracted by the size of his dick pushin’ against the Levi’s, she is gathering heat shields anywhere she can, knowing that the heat from NJ is coming.
Since Mandal owns the guile bidness, Billy smiles, laughs, awe shucks her. “Yer funny Betty.” Billy says, wonderin’ how he can finagle around Sue to get into the sexy Betty’s pants later.
From nowhere, Arvan appears, scowling, seeing his bro puttin’ moves on his ole lady.
He walks up; Mandal sees the jealousy.
PERFECT pings on her radar brain again.
Arvan obviously angry, jealous, knowed a time is comin’ fer he and Billy; jest not yet though.
“Billy.” Arvan is edgy as a growl voice sand papers from his throat.
Three-sixty, violent mood swing, Mandal flinches. Billy off the porch, fist on the filthy T-shirt, violently slams Arvan against the Motels flimsy walls. They shake, slap, slap, Billy whacks his face, seethes.
“WHAT.”
Arvan, character actor, changing, fear now, needs no more life time pain from his brother, stutters.
“M...MA wants ya.”
His eyes bling, bling back and forth.
Billy, Mandal, she’s not smilin’, Billy, power tool forearm, levitates him.
“WHAT...Ya can’t see I’m talkin’ ta the lady here?”
“Ma...Ma said now, Billy. Bout tanight. Cochise.”
Like ice melting into the earth, he gets it finally. His thermostat lowers as he sets Arvan down, musses his hair.
Nice Arvan go fetch.
Affectionately, he spins him, kicks him in the butt, plume of dust and sends him towards the garage.
Arvan twists back, there, Betty is smiling at him, like nothin’ happened. That’s good. Mandal is banking everything, wondering how she can use Arvans hatred for Billy later.
Arvan scowls, hand hovering on his hip knife, stare down, spits, turns and stomps off.
Billy, nothing, just smiling, says. “My brother Arvan.” He laughs, “Read in the Readers Digest, sibling’ rivalry. He don mean no harm. I love I’m.”
Loopy, loony, she can barely keep her head from bobbing off of her long neck. She’s zoning, sleep deprived, she wonders what will happen next.
Billy stares at her body, tip to toes, then says. “Okay Betty...Maybe I’ll see ya later.” Ya get hungry or ya need a beer or somethin’, maybe some company” He hesitates, raises his eyebrows, “Come over ta the bar tanight. Should be hoppin’. Decent enough food fer ya, iffin’ yer hungry.”
Winks, turns, long strides towards the bar just as two choppers roar up; bikers guys, gals on the back. The outlaws look at Billy, he gang hugs them. The crew chit chat it up and, then Sue appears.
Mandal groans and, then sees what she assumes is Billy’s old lady, standing at the door, glaring at her.
She’s sexy, thin, long, dirty blond, not Mandal sexy, harder, bigger features, yet still a hard street bitch kinda erotic and she is leering at her as if she wants to kill her.
In a perfect world, Mandal would far prefer her than Billy, yet she knows instantly to be cautious.
Danger Will Robinson. Flashes in her head.
The dirty blonde could be a real problem; venom in that look. Mandal knows this instantly.
Better pull the ripcord on thoughts of girl sex; get it together. No more convoluted thoughts, breath, she inhales, blows out a plume of smoke.
The chick places her hand on Billy butt, looks at Mandal
Sue Represents.
He’s my man, if ya go near him I’ll cut your fucking eyes outta yer head.
Mandal can see that silent message loud and clear.
Mandal drags on her cigaretteas the troupe move into the bar.
Clarity is life. Flush the thoughts; focus. Her fingers grace the white scars on her face.
Balance is pain, where to get it?
Later.
No sleep since leaving Jersey, three plus days now. She wants to puke on the floor, she feels close to going mad
Play it right. One fuck up and she is dead.
TIME, sometimes passes without her knowing where it has gone, always a problem, sometimes hours simply disappear.
Eyes open, peeks at the garage, Cadillac behind the tower, under the lights, Arvan, cowed a bit, staring at her. He is obviously waiting for a sign that he is still in the game.
She smiles, waves, super human deceit, he grins, waves back, good, Arvan still in her crew. She turns, almost falls, staggers through the door, flops on the bed, on her back. Not yet, sleep soon, things to be done. She rolls off the bed, on her knees, next to the valise, ZIP, 700 K staring at her.
No happiness and money-never makes her happy, no baubles, trinkets, stuff, just a ticket to freedom, she hopes.
Eyes burning, head spins, she almost falls, tough crazy girl, she blinks it away. She looks in the valise, two cans of Bull’s Eye, pipes, fuses, fire caps, that was a good buy, 44 in its shoulder holster. She thought she had put it there.
Knife, Jane’s Book on explosives, handy that. She falls back on her butt with knees bent before her, back against the bed, reaches and pulls her pant cuff back, 38 out, knife too on the floor. She stares at her eclectic girl arsenal, giggles. “What a piece of fucked up work you are.”
Staring at the guide to making bombs, her Jane’s book, she wonders and remembers.
Privileged girl, special girl, fifteen years old so why the interest in Vehicles of death?
Her interests, vary, Geo Political stuff. Global Warming, death of the oceans, whales disappearing, dolphins being eaten, Tigers vanishing, rain forests being clear cut, greatest nation in the world being destroyed by a religious zealot and of course her favorite subject, her own survival.
One more minor thing, and of course that is her daily bouts with thoughts of suicide.
For a moment she thinks of Monet, the Lily ponds, translucent light shearing the canvas. She blinks, stop, stop, get on track, what about Jackson Pollock?
She groans, closes her eyes and almost weeps.
Thousands of miles away, terrible men, horrible men, loading cars, guns, hatchets, blow torches, revenge fueling them. Men with hack saws, welding irons, tin snips, smart men, dedicated men, igniting, uniting in the singular hunt for her.
What is she doing?
Why is she sitting in a rundown motel, trying to come to grips with death as well as her love for Monet, Matice, Andy Warhol, instead of figuring it out and how to get the hell out.
“FUCK.” She murmurs, hand lovingly touching the book, back now from the dream world.
Something outside, perhaps a dog barking, maybe someone screaming makes her brain clear.
Eyes open, brain shutting down. Maybe it’s Bobby Ugo.
STOP IT.
Time to move, NOW, sleep in a bit.
Off goes the light, room dark, in the valise, flashlight, click, beam of light, sweep the room, heating duct, floor to roof, that will have to do.
Hands and knees and valise in tow and a V of light; survival is a strange thing.
She crawls to the heating duct, shines her flash in the valise, withdraws a Phillips Head.
Points to the vent, shaking fingers, unscrews four small screws, money stacked in the vent, pipes next, gun powder on top of that, fuses, fire caps, timers on top of those, a happy family of mayhem hidden from prying eyes.
Back goes the screws, twist, twist, twist, perfect.
Hands and knees, crawling doll, dragging the valise, back against the bed, uplifted arms, 38, knife back in the boot, cuff leg down, better, still more to do.
Bending, dig, dig, around the valise, she retrieves a black leather wallet, slaps it open and flips through glacises packets and stares at her NJ driver’s license, opposite of the ID.
There it is, another pic, a younger her, no scars yet, stunner, thin straps of an emerald evening gown, flute, champagne glass in her hand.
Fat Man sitting, suit, smiles, beef cake arm wrapped around her tiny collar bones almost like a hunter showing of the game he has just killed.
No smiles on her face; just looks of numbness and disgust on her twenty year old face.
Swallowing, palatable grief, she slaps it closed. She flips the wallet on the counter top. Exhales, eyes pressed with jitter fingers.
Find the pack, there it is.
Cigarette between the lips, she digs her Zippo from her change pocket of her jeans.
“Click.”
Fire, inhale, eyes closed, fingers shaking, groans as she exhales and whispers. “What in the fuck am I doing.”
No time for laments. She goes to her knees, the valise, digs her bomber jacket out. She is cold, slips it on and shivers. Desserts are iced at nights muck like the casket with her name on it if they find her. She takes her 44 in the shoulder holster, tucks it under her pillow.
Never know when the Tooth Fairies from Back East will be visiting; have to be prepared.
Falling on her behind, she leans against the bed, stomach grumbles, groans from her, cigarette smoke mingling with her fears, trembling hands pressed against her face. She crawls on the bed and, then with face crushed to hands she begins to weep as she falls asleep.
As always, it will be a short sleep, yet it will be deep. For the first time her dream world will be rem-less, void of nightmares.
When she wakes, beyond her knowledge, those nightmares, hunting her will have gridded closer.
Thus is the world of the hunted as well as their criminal and violent brethren when they dare to abort their pain along an odious extreme moment, called life.
Wonder World
I LINGER, arc of the rainbow, cinched within the stirrups, quite normal for the odd, you see, the citrines, peridots, sapphires, magenta solar flares, comet tails streaming along one’s thighs, legs, past eyes ablaze, into the outer realms of heaven.
Odd, you say? Let me describe the journey, just incase I am so insane, I forget such things in the morning. A singular passenger, within the craft, I must report back what I see. Bows of color, riddling the skies as untamed mottled ponies, furious, benevolent, erupting into bucking ever mesmerizing color temper tantrums. Held from insanity of reins, azure, golden and mauve, smoke, sparks and haze, moments before she, before the color Queen evaporates, evolves to nothing, taking us with her. Where, well where ever rainbows go when they change their capricious minds and decide to hide.
It is a wild travel, dangerous, electrifying, an arc of a magnificent ego, reappears, within her grace. I materialize, shadows, holding light, praying that she will come to form, be forgiving, kind, compassionate, not to ever toss me to the cosmos of her whim again. She is goddess, dictates inside the planets, stars, near the Sun, where she rests at night, melds and mends to shattered moon beams. She is a thief, steals, incorporates and assimilates form, a magical arced smile, after storm, rain, thunder she shares with a world shedding human tears.
It is tiring, so tiring dancing with the rainbows, you of course understand. DO you dream to know what life is inside the color Matriarch? It blinds; It storms; the heat, cold are unbearable, intoxicating as life is to death. The world of the Queen, soothes, so very hard above, unless she delivers us to pots of gold. Then I, you, know that we are dreaming
of still and the wonders of heaven, and, because I do, I can ride the flailing colt into space and beyond, and I do, as I sing and dance with the rainbows as I pray perhaps other somehow will too.
THE BLACK words stood struck, illuminating back to the silent writer from the green illumination of his computer monitor. His breathing is difficult, labored, distressed, of course this is nothing new for him.
Reaching forward, gloved fingers touch the screen. He can almost feel the words.
Eyes close, free hand finds the mouse, cursor guided, click on the PRINT icon.
Gears revolve, behind him a printer begins to clatter, printing out his work.
Slowly, his eyes roam around the dimly lit room. Candles flame, they are bits of humble fire as they dance off the pitched room of the barn he lives in; they are enough illumination for his life. Everywhere he looks there are Indian Blankets, Indian pots, artifacts, bows, arrows, tapestries, Apache paintings of their past. Shelves, tables, benches, book cases are filled with stacks of white paper, his words on them.
He turns, relieves the paper from the printer, lays it on a meter stack, closes his eyes and groans. He is in physical pain as well so much more of the mental. Turning, he limps to a mattress, lays on his side, breathing, coarse, his eyes closed remembering the moments, before he had become the monster.
His memories have faded over the many years, yet still his gifted mind remembers. They are small reminders of what he and who he was once. These comfort him, as well as abhor him as he drifts off to a rare moment of painless sleep.
While he sleeps he dreams.
Mind travel, he is standing at a ledge, granite, sandstone, chalk, earth layered, eons of evolution, a vista of the desert before him. He turn’s, a creature of beauty, female, perhaps an angel, for her skin is white, as is her hair and she is standing before him. She is smiling, bringing him joy from something so elegant and so simple as her smile.
She steps, touches him, draws him in, holds him, perhaps she will love him, draping him within her gauze wings, protecting him from ever being harmed again.
