Black Neon

by Tony O'Neill

“Then do exactly what I fuckin’ say. Move it, and keep your damn mouth closed.”

  When they made it back to the counter, the old man was done emptying the drugs into the bag. Genesis handed the bag to Lupita. Lupita glanced inside and whistled. Then she shoved the bag into the girl’s hand and said, “Empty the fucking register.”

  Lupita and the girl went over to the cash register. Genesis sat the pharmacist down on a swivel chair, keeping the gun on him. “Don’t look at me,” she said. He averted his eyes.

  “Okay, we’re done here,” Lupita yelled. The bag was zipped up, slung over her shoulder.

  She led the girl over to the pharmacist and told her to lie down on the floor at his feet, face down with her hands behind her back. She knelt on the girl’s back, making her grunt a little in protest, and cuffed her, tight. Genesis cuffed the old man to the chair. Lupita ripped the phone from the wall, and stomped on it until it broke into pieces. “Okay, let’s go.” They both headed towards the exit. “You count to fifty Mississippi before you get up,” Lupita yelled back at them. “If I hear that you fuckers got smart and tried to follow us out I promise I will come back and waste the pair of you, goddit?”

  They were by the door when Lupita said, “Stop.” She reached out and placed her hand on Genesis’s shoulder, with an expression calculated to give the impression that she’d just remembered something vitally important.

  “What is it?”

  “Peek through the door. We still clear outside?”

  Genesis put her face up to the glass. “It’s deserted. Let’s go.”

  “No. There’s something… somethin’ I gotta do.”

  Lupita looked back toward where the pharmacist and the girl were tied up.

  “What?” Genesis whispered, “What’s wrong?”

  “Look, don’t panic, okay? There’s just something I’ve got to do, and I need to you keep watch for me, okay?”

  “What do you have to do? What’s goin’ on?”

  “Wait here, okay? If you see anything outside, holler.”

  Genesis watched Lupita walk to the back of the store and make her way behind the counter. Cursing to herself Genesis peeked out of the door again, anxiously watching the street. Lupita stood over the pharmacist and the girl. She felt her breathing get deeper, infusing her whole body with a terrible power. The pharmacist had his eyes closed tight, muttering to himself, his forehead a mass of wrinkles. The girl, however, was staring up at Lupita with eyes that seemed ready to pop out of her head. Her mouth was pursed and she silently shook her head back and forth. Lupita raised the gun and put it to her lips in a shushing motion. She tucked the gun in her waistband and knelt down, leaning in so their faces were only inches apart. She could feet the girl’s jagged breath fluttering against the bandana that covered her face. Lupita whispered, “How old is your kid?”

  The girl didn’t answer. Instead she let out a small, terrified moan.

  Off at the front of the store Genesis looked back. Now that Lupita was crouched down, she was out of sight completely. Swallowing hard, Genesis hissed, “Come on! Lets get the fuck outta here!”

  Lupita turned her head and in a low voice – the kind of low, guttural voice that Genesis recognized from when they made love, a voice that dripped with desire and heat – she said, “I’m coming, hun. Gimmie one second.” Then, turning back to the girl, “How old?”

  “F-four,” the girl whispered. “My daughter… is four years old.”

  Lupita smiled. She reached up to her face and pulled the bandana off. Exposed, she smiled benignly at the girl and whispered, “Kiss me, mami.”

  The girl just lay there, trembling. Lupita leaned in further and forced her lips against the girl’s mouth. The mouth was hot, feverish. As she crushed her lips against the girl’s she grabbed a handful of that tangled, red hair and wrenched some out of the scalp. The girl let out a muffled squeal, and Lupita felt her jaw trembling underneath those soft, furnace-like lips. They broke apart. Lupita stood and tucked the handful of hair into the pocket of her jeans, before drawing the gun.

  “Gracias…” Lupita whispered. She winked at the girl and then casually shot the pharmacist twice in the chest. The girl opened her mouth to scream.

  Before she could make a sound Lupita shot her in the face. The bullet blasted the steaming contents of her skull all over the floor.

  At the sound of the muffled gunshots, Genesis came running. She saw the pharmacist and the girl dead, blood splattered all over the floor. She clamped her hand to her mouth to keep herself from screaming. Lupita looked at Genesis blankly and said, “What the hell’s the matter with you? You look like you seen a ghost.”

  “Th-they’re dead!”

  “Uh-huh.” Lupita seemed oddly calm. “I was talkin’ to the girl, making sure that she knew what the consequences would be if she talked. All of a sudden the bitch tries to bite me. She didn’t get me, but she pulled the bandana off my damn face with her teeth. Once they’d seen my face, hun, I had no fuckin’ choice. It was them or us.”

  Genesis just stood there, looking at the bloody corpses. Lupita tucked the gun away, fixed the bandana over her face again. She grabbed Genesis by the shoulder. They locked eyes.

  “Listen to me. I had no choice, okay? That’s the goddamned truth. I had to kill the both of them. It was out of my hands. They saw my face.”

  Genesis nodded quickly.

  “You understand?” Lupita hissed, “Because if this is a problem we can go our separate ways right now. I had to do it.”

  “I understand,” Genesis whispered.

  “Enough talking, then. Let’s get the fuck out of here before we have to explain it to a judge.”

  *

  When they made it back to the motel, Lupita headed straight for the altar. She lit a votive candle and sat cross-legged in front of it. She held the long strands of red hair she had taken from the dead girl over the flame. They sizzled, sending a distinctive smell and wisps of black smoke into the air as Lupita dreamily recited a prayer in Spanish.

  Genesis watched all this from the bed, a sick, heavy feeling in her gut. Observing this odd ritual the thought had occurred to her that Lupita might be insane. She had killed three people in the short time they had known each other, and in Genesis’s experience anyone this obsessed with religion was usually using it as a cover for some kind of darkness inside. But, Genesis mused, when Lupita wasn’t killing people or praying to plastic statues of the Virgin Mary… she seemed so normal.

  Lupita caught Genesis’s gaze on her and asked, “You okay?”

  Genesis nodded quickly.

  Lupita gazed at the candle’s flickering flame. A pained expression came over her.

  “I don’t like to kill, Genesis hun. Taking someone’s life... it’s not something I do easily. But it was them or us. If she’d have just listened to me and acted cool….”

  There was an awkward silence. Then Genesis spoke cautiously.

  “What were you doing there? I mean, with the hair.”

  “Praying for her. She didn’t die a happy death, hun. I was just praying that she’d find some peace. You know, on the other side. That’s all.”

  Genesis nodded slowly. She looked at the bag on the bed, and tried to force the ugly thoughts out of her head. Now that they were away from the drug store, and away from Reno, Lupita seemed more like her old self again. And there were all the drugs to consider…

  Lupita stood, and as if reading Genesis’s mind asked, “You wanna check out the haul?”

  Genesis’s face brightened. “Damn straight.”

  They counted the stash – both of them kneeling on the floor, with the haul spread out on the bed. It added up to almost eight hundred dollars and a literal pile of controlled substances. Chunky white Vicodin, chalky to the touch. Perfectly round Oxycontin, in a variety of enticing colours: white, pale pink, yellow and best of all the 8
0mg in lime green. At least ninety 8mg Dilaudid that were triangular with rounded corners. Blister packs of perfectly formed little Ritalin pills. And the Adderall: two hundred or so two-toned capsules full of tiny orange balls that tasted sickly-sweet in the back of your throat when crushed and snorted. Not to two mention dozen morphine ampoules and a couple of boxes of Fentanyl patches.

  “Oh my God,” Genesis said as they went through it all, separating out the drugs and counting the money, “all of these pills are making me horny. I never seen so many in one place before. I just – I just wish we didn’t have to… you know. Kill those people.”

  Lupita playfully grabbed Genesis’s hair, and nuzzled her neck.

  “It’s a dog eat dog world out there, hun. You need to stop worrying about other people and start worrying about covering your own ass. You think that either of those motherfuckers would give a shit if the cops blew us away, or tossed our asses in jail? Honestly?”

  “No,” Genesis conceded.

  “Fucking right. It’s okay to feel bad, Genesis hun. Only human. But you just gotta pray on it for a while, and then move the fuck on. Otherwise that shit’ll eat away at you, either send you crazy or make you fuck up so bad you end up in jail or the morgue. Baby, you did good today. You made me proud. You were cool as a fucking cucumber, and you didn’t take any shit. It kinda turned me on.”

  “Thanks, baby,” Genesis said, smiling a little. “Still, you gotta make me a promise. I know you didn’t have a choice today, but you gotta swear to me – swear to me Lupita – no more killing. I just couldn’t bear to have another thing like that on my conscience.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, it ain’t on your conscience. It’s on mine. You had no part of what went on in there after we took the drugs. None. I had to make an… executive decision is all.”

  “I understand that, Lupe. But I still need you to promise me. No more killing, okay? I mean it.”

  “Okay, hun. I promise. I’ll do my fuckin’ best, okay? If that’s what makes you happy.”

  Genesis nodded eagerly. “It is. That’ll make me real happy. Okay, enough of that shit. We got more drugs than I ever seen in one place in my whole life before.”

  “Beautiful, ain’t it?”

  “Sure is. So what do you wanna do first? You ever shot Ritalin and Dilaudid together? It’s pretty wild.”

  “Oh yeah? Sounds good to me. You got something you gotta do for me first, though.”

  Lupita stood up and unbuttoned her skinny black jeans. She tugged them down, and stepped out of them. She wasn’t wearing any underwear. She picked up the SIG-Saer P-225 from the bed, and pointed it at her black, curly pubic patch. Genesis looked up at her, laughed softly and said, “Oh God, baby! What do you got in mind?”

  “Time for your lesson,” Lupita said. “You’re a natural at robbin’ drugstores, girl, but your technique down here still needs a little work. It’s time for schooling, and I gotta tell you… I’m as hot as hell right now.”

  “You mind if I get a little high first?” Genesis said, fake pouting.

  “Okay by me, Genesis hun, just do it quickly ’cause I’m about liable to explode right now. And remember, this ain’t no porno flick. Don’t eat me like you’re trying to impress a guy.” She tapped the barrel of the gun against her crotch lightly. “You got to make me happy. No acting. You gotta really show the pussy some affection. Show it who the boss is.”

  “Yes m’am,” Genesis said, kissing her belly lightly, and rubbing her face against Lupita’s pubic hair like a cat. She could feel the animal heat rising from her lover’s cunt in waves. She turned her attention back to the bed and started hungrily separating out pills.

  TEN

  Under most circumstances Kinder Eggs would have held very little appeal for Jacques Seltzer. He found the cheap, mass produced chocolate to be utterly abhorrent, preferring the craft and workmanship of Parisian master chocolatiers like Michel Chaudun. The simple children’s novelties hidden inside the eggs – the miniature Smurfs, plastic toy cars, or what have you – likewise were of no interest to him. In fact, if it wasn’t for the hard yellow plastic shell inside the chocolate egg that the novelties came hidden in, Seltzer might easily have gone his whole life without ever having bought one.

  However, when Seltzer was crossing international borders those yellow plastic shells were an essential part of his travel kit. Each one could reasonably hold a significant amount of contraband. On top of this they were also a perfect size and shape for rectal insertion. It had taken some practice, but in time he was able to fit up to four of them inside his ass without causing himself serious discomfort.

  Jacques had arrived in Los Angeles an hour earlier to meet Randal. Over the phone Randal had intrigued Jacques. He felt that this wealthy, aimless decadent was someone he could relate to. Jacques was particularly fascinated by two types of people: the extremely rich and the extremely poor. Jacques knew that the extremely rich lived their lives without any rules because their money convinced them – rightly, in most cases – that the traditional norms of society did not apply to them. They had been brought up to believe that they were special. Barring murder, there were few transgressions that could not be smoothed over if you had enough money. Even murder was, Jacques felt in some deep, locked away part of himself, negotiable.

  The poor interested Jacques because they lived their lives without rules as well, although their rationale was different. They had no investment in society, no illusions of mobility or respectability to protect. Although there were plenty of cosmetic differences between the extremely rich and the extremely poor Jacques found their moment-to-moment attitude to life very similar. After speaking with Randal for just an hour, Jacques was convinced that he had found his man. Inspired, he booked a flight to Los Angeles and arranged to meet Randal on his home turf.

  While Randal sat at the bar of Encounter, Los Angeles International Airport’s premier Sixties sci-fi themed restaurant, poking unenthusiastically at an ahi tuna salad, Jacques Seltzer was in the men’s room squeezing one 8 ball of cocaine, one eighth of an ounce of hash, fourteen ecstasy tablets and an 8 ball of heroin out of his anus. They landed in the toilet bowl one after the other, plop! Plop! Plop! Plop! Another good thing about those Kinder Egg shells was that they were completely waterproof.

  After having four shells stuffed up there for over fourteen hours it felt particularly satisfying to hear the last one splash down in the bowl. He allowed himself a moment to relish the feeling of relief. He closed his eyes and sat contentedly, listening to the wailing theremin music that they piped into the bathrooms. Then he stood and turned around to retrieve his bounty.

  The moment Jacques stood a terrible noise filled the stall, a violent whooshing sound, like an airplane passing low overhead. Jacques stood frozen in horror as his drugs were instantly sucked away by the toilet’s super-powered automatic flush. Too late Jacques noticed the infrared detector that had caused the toilet to flush the moment his considerable bulk had shifted from the toilet bowl. In a fraction of a second his entire stash had been vacuumed away into the Los Angeles sewer system via this vile, space-age crapper.

  At the bar a disinterested barmaid dressed like a 99¢ store Judy Jetson filled Randal’s glass with soda. The dispenser was shaped like a Ray Gun and made a zapping sound when it sprayed. A sudden burst of indecipherable obscenities, a garbled hodge-podge of French and bastardized English erupted from the bathroom. It was loud enough to cause the entire restaurant to fall into a startled hush for a moment. When Jacques Seltzer emerged from the men’s room a minute or two later and took his seat next to Randal, he looked manic. His eyes were blazing and his face seemed even more flushed and sweaty than before.

  “Everything okay?”

  Ignoring Randal’s question Jacques barked at the barmaid, “Martini, s’il vous plait!”

  Jacques stared at the ceiling for a moment, and then looked around his kit
schy surroundings. The restaurant itself was housed in a circular building that looked something like an Ed Wood-style flying saucer. The decor was a riot of lava lamps, white plastic pop art furniture, and acid-flashback colour schemes, pitched somewhere in between a Seventies bachelor pad and a high school production of Star Trek. He shook his head and looked at Randal.

  “Forgive my rudeness Randal, but I just had a very disturbing experience.”

  “More disturbing than the decor in here?”

  Jacques did not laugh. Randal wondered what could constitute a disturbing experience to man who had watched an ex-schoolteacher mummified in Saran Wrap getting meth injected into his cock. The barmaid brought over Jacques’ drink, and he rested his hand on the stem of the glass.

  “I suppose we should get to the matter at hand,” Jacques said.

  “Sure. So how you wanna play this, Jacques?”

  “Randal, my intention is to stay in the city for two weeks. Get to know the scene, meet some people, yes?”

  “Sounds good, Jacques. Where are you gonna be staying?”

  “Wherever you put me, Randal! Where else? The motels you mentioned, the transient places, this is where I need to be. I must soak up and capture as much of the authentic city as is humanly possible in my short time here. I cannot do that if I am drinking champagne in the Four Seasons, no?”

  “I guess not.”

  “I will be shooting some footage on this trip. Making plans, documenting the early stages of the project. The most important thing is that I can assimilate, oui? Pass unnoticed in this world. I do not want to be treated any different from the average junkie on the street.”

  “Well, if that’s the way you want to play it. I gotta tell you Jacques, I’ve met the average junkie on the street, and he’s usually a real asshole.”

  Randal thought of the cold, desperate rooms he had stayed in when he was on one of his serious meth runs. Even when he had his own place, he preferred to check into a cheap motel when he was indulging in a sex and speed bender. For a start, it lowered the chances that whatever desperate meth whore he had convinced to sleep with him would be able to steal anything too valuable. Also he preferred the anonymity. There were no worries that his family would barge in trying to pull one of their periodic surprise interventions. These were ugly, desperate rooms – perfect for committing ugly, desperate acts in. In a weird way, the sleazy motel rooms had been as much of a part of his drug ritual as the drugs themselves.