Poor Bastards and Rich Fucks

by John Bruni

  “Good evening, Stacy.” He spoke in a deceptively cultured tone with a faint British accent. Almost in the same breath, he turned his head to the woman behind him, and his voice dropped back into the gutter, completely without accent. “Jerk my pipe, cunt. You know how I like it.”

  The woman reached around him and clutched at his member. It barely poked out of her closed fist. She also stuck two of her fingers deep into the King’s asshole, matching thrusts with strokes.

  “To what do I owe a visit from such a cherubic innocent as yourself?” King James asked.

  She took a deep breath. “I know your time is valuable, so I won’t waste it with pleasantries. I’m in the market for a gun. Can you get one for me?”

  He smiled, but it didn’t look natural on his face, not the way he hung upside down with the pasty, doughy flesh of his double chin trying to ooze around the rest of his face. “What would a fine bitch like you want with a piece?”

  “I just need the gun, all right?”

  “Cool. What kind?”

  That question kind of surprised Stacy. She didn’t know much about guns. All she needed was something that would fire a bullet when she pulled the trigger. “I don’t know. A good one, I guess.”

  This time, King James laughed. “How much you got?”

  “That’s going to be a problem. I don’t have much money. I only have a hundred bucks.”

  “A hundred? That ain’t gonna’ get you shit. The cheapest I got’s worth five times that.”

  Stacy felt her face drip from her skull. If they cost so much, why did every poor kid on the streets have one? She sighed. So much for that idea. Maybe she could find something she could use as a club. She thought back to the piece of road track she’d almost been raped with, and she thought it would do well at cracking skulls. Maybe—

  “Stacy, darling. I have a proposition in which we all come out a bit more happy.”

  She knew this would happen. She’d desperately hoped it wouldn’t, but then she thought about how much money she’d have by this time tomorrow. She could buy her way out of any deal with King James.

  “You sling your ass for me for, say, a month, and we call it even. Cool?” His face elongated as his dick convulsed. Semen rolled down his belly like spilled milk, and even though he hung upside down, it pooled around the fuckslinger’s hand. Glazed jelly. Then, as if his orgasm hadn’t just happened, King James said, “That is, provided you’re not going to use said shooter to relieve a bank of its money, or something equally foolish. You ain’t gonna’ do something that stupid, huh?”

  Stacy gritted her teeth, but she tried to play it cool. “Nothing like that. But if things work out, I’ll be able to pay you back tomorrow.”

  “Bitch, you for real? Don’t you play me. The only way this shit’s gonna’ work is if your ass belongs to me.”

  Fuck. Maybe a million dollars would change his mind tomorrow. For now, she had to go with it. “Two weeks. I can raise more than five hundred for you in two weeks.”

  “Three.”

  She could easily lie, but she didn’t want to make it seem too easy. “Two. That’s my final offer.”

  King James ran his tongue over his teeth and sighed. “Very well. Two weeks. But you’ll be working your ass off.”

  “You know it,” Stacy said. “When do I get my gun?”

  “Moonbeam, darling. Put down the book and retrieve one of the .22’s from my closet.”

  Moonbeam removed her glistening fingers from inside of herself and put the book down before following orders. Stacy glimpsed what looked like an armory in the closet before Moonbeam grabbed a gun and brought it out to King James.

  “Give it to her.”

  Stacy took the gun. “What about ammunition?”

  King James grinned so wide she could see every single tooth in his mouth, all in perfect condition. The upper teeth were gold. “Three weeks, sugarcooze.”

  Stacy’s nostrils flared. “That’s not fucking fair. Gimme the fucking ammo, all right?”

  “Three weeks. Then you get heat for your heater.”

  “We had a deal!”

  “I know,” King James said. “Call this another deal, you wanna’.”

  Stacy wanted to kick him in the bare nuts. That would turn that insufferable smile into a frown. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, and she could feel her face ignite with rage. Still, he had the women, and though they were nearly naked, she knew they would have weaponry hidden on them somewhere.

  She had to remind herself that she’d been lying to get her temper back in line. “Three weeks it is. Just gimme the ammo.”

  King James laughed. “Go on, Moonbeam. Retrieve madam’s ammunition. Three clips, one for each week she’ll belong to me.”

  When Moonbeam handed them over, Stacy put two clips in her pocket. The third, she began to slip into the bottom of the gun. King James cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t do that just yet, Stacy, darling. Not in my boudoir. You might make the ladies nervous, not to mention the ill effect your actions could have on me.” The women produced derringers from the backs of their panties.

  Stacy put the last clip with the others and slid the gun down the front of her pants. “When do I start?”

  “Whenever your business has been concluded,” King James said. “No later than next weekend.”

  “All right. Thank you, King James.” She turned and walked out. On her way through the lobby, the two guards took time from their busy schedules to watch her ass as she left the building.

  3

  Stacy stood outside the hotel for a moment, feeling the weight of the gun just above her pussy. She fingered the butt, wondering how she would find the others. As she thought, she slipped into a nearby alleyway so she could put the clip in the gun. It only took her a moment to figure out how the pistol worked.

  She knew the cop would be trouble, so she’d have to hope someone else managed to nail him. She didn’t know much about the creep, but he looked pretty smart. She’d have to put him off for later. The others? They might be easier. She could probably find them all out on the Sleaze Strip. Fuckslingers and homeless guys should be easy to take care of. The punk might put up a fight, but so what? Stacy had firepower.

  She stowed the gun away and stepped back out into the flow of fuckslingers and hustlers, keeping careful watch on every face she passed, hoping the blue circle would show her the info she wanted and fast.

  4

  She spent about a half an hour wandering down the Sleaze Strip. She saw a few familiar faces and stopped long enough to say hi. She didn’t stay long enough to explain her situation, though; she didn’t want to lose much time.

  All the regulars put in an appearance. The guy with a lizard arm, who liked to cut it off so people could fuck the stump. It would grow back by the following night. The guy with a bunch of tiny dicks hanging from his crotch, waving like seaweed at whoever looked. The guy who took pills to make his legs fall off so he could beg. She ignored as many as she could.

  She almost made it back to civilization when she thought about going home for a short while. Her heels ached, and she really wanted to change into something a bit more practical, now that she didn’t have to put on a show for anyone. The night air chilled her mostly exposed body.

  Just then, as she walked past an alley, she saw someone across the street. The blue circle popped up. Wayne Richards. An alert also appeared, warning her of the Red Death and that she shouldn’t have sexual contact with him, nor should she get his blood into her circulatory system. Wayne stood there, almost casually leaning against a building, conversing with a stooped over old guy. Even though he stood mostly in shadows, Stacy could see the blemishes on his red-slicked face.

  Her heart went rabid in her chest. Before, the thought of killing someone seemed doable, especially with such high stakes. Now that she found herself in that moment of truth, doubt settled in. Could she really put this guy down?

  One way to find out. She eased into a crowd of fuckslingers as
they moved across the street. This would hide her away from his view until the last second, but would she be able to kill him in front of so many witnesses?

  No, fuck the witnesses. This was the Sleaze Strip. They’d be too busy worrying about getting into trouble, themselves.

  Stacy slipped away from the fuckslingers and went into the alley nearest to where Wayne stood, his thoughts no doubt on the cool billion dollars. She didn’t see the old guy anymore. Good. She pulled the gun out, and its metal cooled the sweat on her palm. She peeked out of the alley and aimed the gun at him. It shook, and she had to use the wall to steady herself.

  She stood like that for a while, wondering why she hadn’t pulled the trigger yet. The guy would probably thank her, considering how far along he was with the Red Death. Then, she thought about how the old man in the wheelchair had talked about Wayne’s past. Did he really deserve to die like this?

  Fuck him. Remember the billion dollars. All you have to do is put a third eye in his forehead, and there will only be five people between you and your wildest fantasies.

  She breathed her tension out and tightened her finger on the trigger until it fired, sending a bullet off to her target.

  Chapter 5

  1

  When Wayne Richards woke up, his ass felt cold and slimy, as if someone had slipped refrigerated marinara sauce down the back of his pants. He knew the feeling well, over this past month. Although he couldn’t smell it yet, he knew he’d shit himself while sleeping again.

  He couldn’t get used to the sensation, no matter how many times it happened. He sat up, still feeling numb from unconsciousness. It took him a moment to get his fingers moving, as if they’d fallen asleep when he’d been out. He had to find a park pond or a water fountain and wash himself and his pants as best as he could.

  He forced himself to stand, and he felt the slime ooze down the backs of his legs. He groaned as the stench hit him. Rotten egg, trash and gasoline. Never had the smell been that bad before. Maybe he wouldn’t live to see tomorrow after all.

  The thought jogged something loose in the back of his brain. He suddenly didn’t remember passing out here. No, something had happened to—

  Memories flooded back. The old man in the wheelchair, the fuckslingers and the others, the billion dollars.

  The cure for the Red Death. Could that be real? If he had the billion dollars, could he really be cured?

  He wiped at his forehead, and his hand came away slick with blood. In that moment, he knew he’d take any chance at all to clean his system of this horrible disease. It wouldn’t solve all of his problems, but if he didn’t have the Red Death, maybe he could make a comeback. Maybe he could get a job and start being useful again.

  He thought back to his childhood, to his parents, to how easy life had been with money, and he wondered if he could have all of that again.

  But could he kill those other people to get it? He didn’t know. He’d never done anything like that before, not on purpose. Sure, in high school, he’d been a violent bastard, and there had been that one incident, but now? He couldn’t throw a punch if someone helped him.

  His dripping shit reached his socks, and he knew he’d have to table that particular thought for the moment. First things first: he needed to clean himself up. He duckwalked down the street with the rest of the drunks, homeless and fuckslingers, heading for the nearest park he knew, hoping he’d get there before his shoes got fucked up.

  2

  The park wasn’t on the Sleaze Strip, but it was pretty close, close enough for Wayne to get there in about a half an hour. He bathed here the most, since they had the best fountain. The structure stood five feet deep in some points. Noble statues—Greek gods?—towered over it as water cascaded from their mouths. Lights illuminated their faces and their eerie cataract eyes.

  Wayne stripped down to the skin, tossed his soiled pants and socks into the fountain and climbed in after them. The cool water soothed him immediately, and he felt the urge to sink beneath the surface and just let himself go. In the blazing lights beneath his feet, he could see flakes of brown coming away from himself.

  He ran his fingers over his ass in quick strokes and then scrubbed his pants and socks with his bare hands. When his clothes were as clean as they were going to get, he dropped them out of the fountain and waited, hoping they would dry quickly. Not likely, in the cool night air, but he wanted to at least give it a chance.

  He lowered himself until he could sit on one of the rocks below, feeling the waterfall cascade over his ruined face. He moved his feet through the pennies and nickels below him, the only money left in this cashless world, kept only for wishes. He wondered how many of them he treaded on. How many wishes would come true, and how many would become bitter disappointments? How many were cries for help and miracles?

  In his youth, he would have never thought he’d have wound up like this. Not as he played football for his high school, not as he fucked his way through all the cheerleaders in the back seat of his father’s car, not as he . . . not as money got him out of every problem he’d ever gotten himself into.

  He thought about one man in this moment, as he often did: David Nelson. Wayne had never believed in any higher power, but David Nelson made him think that maybe karma existed, after all. Of all the horrible shit Wayne had done in his life, he regretted what he’d done to David Nelson most, and he wished with all of his heart that he could take it back.

  Would he still be here if not for what he’d done to David Nelson? Probably. But all the hardships he’d experienced since then had shown him how wrong he’d been back then.

  No, back then, he’d preyed on the weak. The guy with the glasses? The kid who couldn’t catch a ball worth a damn? People who looked differently than anyone else? He thought about all the names, the racial epithets, the homophobic remarks, that had all been a part of his regular vocabulary back then, and he shuddered.

  David Nelson had been black, the only black student at his high school. Ordinarily, that would have made him a target for Wayne and his football friends, but when he started dating a white girl, that upped the ante pretty far.

  Wayne never considered himself a racist . . . provided black people kept to their own, everyone would be happy, right? But no, David Nelson had to stick his black cock in white pussy, and Wayne felt he had to do something about it.

  One night, as David Nelson walked home after a date with his girl, Wayne and his friends cornered him. They’d only meant to beat the shit out of him, and they’d certainly done that, but then he talked back to them through a mouth full of blood and broken teeth. Wayne kicked him in the head a little too hard, and then the high school had lost its only black student.

  Wayne’s father greased the right palms, and he and his friends got out of a lot of trouble. Everyone congratulated him on what had happened, but even back then he knew he’d done something wrong, and it tormented him. He tried to bury it in alcohol and one-night stands, but David Nelson always came back and haunted him in his loneliest moments.

  One of those one-night stands had rewarded him with the Red Death. She didn’t show any of the signs, but in the early stages, she didn’t have to.

  He wiped at his forehead and saw that his hand only came away with water. The bleeding had stopped, at least for now. But when he looked down, he could still see the horrible lesions on his chest, a constant reminder of his dying body.

  As he sat there, thinking about David Nelson, he knew he couldn’t kill the others. He couldn’t add to the nearly overwhelming weight on the back of his neck. But maybe, just maybe, he could make up for what he’d done by saving some lives. Maybe—

  “Jesus Christ, buddy! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

  Wayne looked across the fountain and saw a cop standing there, tapping his nightstick in his hand. He looked ready to hand out a wood shampoo.

  “Good evening, officer. I know this doesn’t look good, but—“

  “Get your filthy, homeless ass out of the
fountain, get those clothes on, and get the fuck out of here, got me? Or do I have to bash your fucking head in?” He pointed the nightstick at Wayne.

  In a moment of fury, Wayne felt the urge to leap out of the fountain and tackle the cop, pummeling his face with punches, but he knew his ragged body would never muster the energy for something like that. He’d only get his skull cracked. Besides, he reminded himself, he wasn’t a violent man anymore. He had to stay calm.

  “I got you, officer-sir.” Wayne climbed out of the fountain.

  The cop’s eyes widened when he got a glimpse of Wayne’s naked, lesioned body, then they narrowed in disgust. “What the fuck’s this shit?” He waved the nightstick at Wayne’s chest.

  “The Red Death,” Wayne said. He pulled on his damp pants. They were cold, but at least they weren’t cold and slimy.

  “Red Death? Ain’t you got no sense? What if kids got into that fountain and came back looking like you, huh?”

  The Red Death didn’t spread by mere contact. It had to be sexual contact, or his blood had to enter another person’s system through a large open wound, but Wayne thought it would be better to not contradict the officer. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’d better be, you fuck. Go on, get out of here. Don’t let me see you back here again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wayne put on the rest of his clothes, tied his shoes and walked away, feeling the cop’s gaze burn on the back of his neck. The feeling consumed him so much he nearly bumped into a statue. The marble base suddenly filled his vision, and he halted just before he ran into it. Looking up, he saw an angel, wings spread out far, an hourglass in one hand and an outstretched sword in the other. The stone blade pointed at Wayne, and the angel’s black eyes stared down into his own. He felt suddenly judged, and the decision had been eternal damnation.

  “You’re going to die,” a voice from behind him said. “Very soon.”