by Jane Brooke
No time like the present, she figured. Walking to the door, she turned and saw the last baggage of her old life. She giggled; she was bullet proof, youth and its careless ways. The door snapped closed, she was gone.
Walking with attitude, she hit up another smoke, inhaled and left a cloud behind her.
She cruised to the end of the hallway, two by two down the steps, a genius altruistic self destructive lunatic, moving to her own tune. Confidence and new cigarette smoke leaking from cantaloupe lips she moved, adrenaline pumping, she busted a move through the door. In the court yard now, girls gasped, pointed, she was laughing, mind fucked, fueled, a Titian pencil sketch roaring in her mind. Several excited, chattering, goofing school girls tagged along behind her.
She was their paramour.
Doors slammed opened, crash, bang and shudder. She was modeling down the hall, past the administrative buildings, nuns, teachers gawking, more girls juking behind her; party time for, everyone but the Sisters.
There they we’re, the doors to freedom, her new life, a way cool and amazing life she was certain of. Not that far now, she was on the grift, a predator drone with software preprogrammed in one direction, a life of depravity, art, music, misery. What the fuck, as long as it was something besides being bored to death.
Mother Superior gathered up an army of one. Sister Anne, Mum, stood at the main entrance, shocked, frightened, something in black leather, red stockings, white hair and a face like one of Lucifer’s fallen few was moving in on them. Party Girl approached. Oh man was she flaming, resembled one of those parables out of Rushdie’s Satanic Verses, one of her favorite books.
More girls trailing, buzzes of gossip, it can’t be, no way, rad, finally someone was going to escape, gas the place, hop the wall, fucking tunnel out, whatever. The girls were building IDs into an frenzy, their new Pied Piper of cool trolling for their souls.
Chewing away on her Bubblicious, smoke stacking from her Bambi nose, hip hopping, Mandel strolled up to the Sisters of Mercy, looked at them, jived a bit and, then grew silent. Her blue eyes were melting their Catholic eyes, their wrinkled fingers gripping and re gripping their crucifixes, the ones with Jesus stapled to them. If they messed with her, she would load her 38 and shoot them dead, way dead. She knew that no one gets out alive in the end. Fuck everyone knew that.
She mused, giggled, blew a bubble, popped it and, then plumed smoke into the freaks eyes. She giggled, thought, let Jesus deal with the afterbirth, he was a stone cold pro trash hauler of souls, and jest wait a sec, another Pilipino church would fall on some crowd of true believers heads.
She liked thinking slang and smut; that was who she was also.
Now, a standoff between the pimped out geishas of the Papa in Rome and a hurricane of god’s savagery, beauty and decadence had begun. They no more got it, then if some priest had sodomized them, instead of some innocent altar boy, the usual suspect.
About fifty teenage cum guzzler cheer leaders, who thought fellatio with the football star was fine for a first date, buzzed behind her.
The sisters, scattered words, stuttered something like.
“Miss...Ahhh, Miss Beckwith, wha...wha is the meaning of this...Wha...what is happening.” Something like that.
Chewing away at pink bubble gum, she glanced back at her fan club and, then back at the traumatized oldsters. To their horror, she stoked a smoke ring into their faces, violently racked her hands into their chests.
The gals flew back, hit the wall, fell on their butts and, then leered at the demon hovering over them.
Mandal smiled, and purred. “God is dead you bitch’s. Get a life. I am so out of here.”
They gasped.
She flicked her cigarette butt at Mother Superiors tunic. Sparks and ashes ignited as the Nun slapped at them, beat at them; she was terrorized.
Where was God when you really needed him? That selective miracle bull shit, and the answering of your prayers that never seemed to work. That is unless you got lucky, and your prayers were answered and you sold your golf clubs at a white elephant sale.
Mandel, winked, looked back at the crowd, slashed through the door; her crowd of adoring adolescents followed her.
Across the snow and the promenade she cruised a happy girl fast becoming the slut she had always dreamed that she would be. She hit the side of the road, one more vagrant lunatic on a mission, a thumb thrown out to the road. At the door, the girls gathered, as did the Nuns, gawking, staring as they clutched their hearts, quite literally just second from strokes.
A few minutes passed and, then an eighteen-wheeler roared u spewing steam and diesel fuel from its chrome stack’s, saw a white sugar cube hitchhiking along the curb and stalled out. A door flew open, she jumped in and as the door smacked shut, time was suspended for a lick, a time click, the crowd hushed. Why fucking not?
Brief moments vaporized as the Sisters prayed what they were witnessing was an illusion as then the semi’s window rolled down as Mandal’s MIDDLE FINGER raised to the sky, struck out at her fellow prisoners; her ex jailers. The nuns clutched their hearts, several staff rushed to their assistance.
One potato, two potatoes, three potatoes four.
The entire team of girls erupted into an avalanche of roaring cheers.
Mother Superior feinted as the girls jumped up and down shaking their booties and screaming as the truck grinded into gear and, then cranked down the road, over a hill and was gone.
Thus, was how Mandel had hip hopped into her, new life.
Over 10 Years Later
Atlantic City, New Jersey
THE old whores mind was rightfully fucked up. She was screwed, she knew it, but just how bad, she had not a god damn clue. She was envious, for her girl was getting out, alive, maybe. No one had ever aborted ‘The Pony Club’ unless a pair of stainless high heels accompanied them at the bottom of the Coney Pier.
Red neon, the color of hemoglobin washed over her sagging face. She sat in a corner, chewing at magenta finger nails. No way could she stop the bitch whore from making the biggest mistake of her life. Anthony (Tony) Uruguay could do more with a blow torch, wire snips, than a 30 year vet of Local 21, The NJ Electricians Union could. He was not a member, but he did control their pension fund.
Tony, all 300 obese lbs of him, had pimped her out once, age came, Onetta ended up his madam. It was a perfect world for the sociopath mobster. A pure sadist, he surrounded himself with emotionally, crippled masochists, beat down girls, runaways, incest girls, trailer trash girls. They sucked into his world like a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon did to any broad over forty. For him, it, simply said, was gangster Nirvana.
The end bowel movement of a drugged up Mommy, a raping, sex addicted, gambler Daddy, Onetta was a broken down image of the end game for a stripper, a whore and, then a madam of the insane.
She had made decisions, wrong ones, re salvaged up a crapped up life, understood real good what her galactic blond whore was doing. Oh, she understood that scenario fucking all too well.
The usual fringe characters hung at The Pony. You know. No morals, no character, mobsters, hitters and sketch-artists of murder, theft, extortion, pimps, anything and everything. They lit there like maggots doing fly byes over a pile of shit.
The Pony had the perfect young bods which lacked brains, showed up routinely like naked lemming hurdling off a cliff to the nude club. Broadway, ‘The Pony Club’ was not. Broads were begging to work there.
Go fucking figure.
In the case of the girls, they got the hell kicked out of them if they didn’t deliver. Once addicted, turned out, no going back was the norm. It was a great place if you were a player and if not, as the ‘Boys’ would sneeze. “Forget about it.”
Big was good, bigger was better. Cadillac’s, Hummers, Gas hog SUV’S, Chrysler Town Cars, all rides of choice. Big diamonds, big gold, pi
nky rings, heavy chains, lots a crosses, pictures of mothers in calf skinned wallets, wops kinda ruled the roost. Lots a bee hive Jersey wives, make up queens, worn and ravaged, ink blot eye liner, paste for skin, ragged women, kids, lots a kids, locked away along the Jersey shore. Italians, Mick’s, Greeks, Hebrews, black, brown criminals of every skin color. ‘The Pony’ was their club.
Outta Brighton Beach the ex Soviet mobs boys came. They lived large, for America, was large.
“America, she is beautiful, no. Land of milk and honey, no.”
Vietnamese, Serbs, Latvians, nut head cases from Ukraine, Croatians, Chinese geeks addicted to gambling, ex Sandinistas, Kilmer Rouge, Arab splinter groups, thugs, murderers made up the rest of the Acid trip of a violence group.
Therefore, it was a melting honey pot for skipped out and crazy girls; a crevice of hell where a gal could easily disappear. Thus was the way it was, when she and that magnetic, jeweled with diamond cunt had arrived a decade ago.
ONETTA smoked with no worry about lung cancer. Fuck that would be a gift right about now. A bullet in the back of the head, a dumpster, something worse, turned out on the street, she was jacked up with those worries.
Like a rat in the corner, she gawks, watching the most beautiful, brain gifted, alluring, addicting (like Heroin denied to a junkie) and above all, scariest whore she had ever met.
The blond bitch, with the fading ski trail scars snow-boarding down her perfect white face, was loading stacks of hundred dollar bills, into a black valise. The fucking money was not hers, and that worried Onetta too. It was the blond twists boy friend’s money, one Anthony Uruguay. And, that was a fucking death warrant she figured with her name spelled ONETTA on it any way she fucking looked at it.
Mandal Beckwith, looking not a lot different than when she jettisoned a Montreal girl’s school over ten years earlier was more stunning than ever. Taller, leaner, no real tits yet, no hips, small ass, long neck, really a monster of a beauty queen, was ready again to split.
Taking a no filter Lucky Strike, she pops it between her lips, flicks her Zippo, Red Dragon insignia brazed to chrome, nods and lights up the smoke.
White haze, twirling out of her small, pointed nose, memories, like cancer eating her brain. The last ten years, fucked her up, ate her up, maybe tough love, better days were ahead; maybe.
What had she gotten for her ten year brain trip, Nada? Bad roll of the dice, snake eyes, a dump site for most of the deviants on the East Coast, Fat Tony their Buddha Head, leading the way into the bottom of a pile of crap.
She had fucked the truck driver, first night, back of the cab, felt nothing. Morning, Interstate, threw out her velvet thumb, washed around the East Coast for awhile, screwed her way here and there. Her cunt got her anything she wanted. Lots a hard bar’s, neon lit motel rooms, where a quarter got her fifteen minutes of cable, which she was too zonked out to watch.
She danced naked a bit, was stoned more often than not, a career girl on the prowl. Totally insane and looking for career advancement, she mortgaged her body for a little upward mobility life advancement. Cash flow was good, men loved young, fearless sluts, especially with astonishing, mind fuck you attitudes, and a tear your cock a part beauty cunt.
Her eyes lift, she smokes, looks out the top floor room window where the girls dress down crib is slotted. She has a private crib. Down below, the alley, garbage, dumpsters, used shoot up kits, junkies, its 3 AM; sneak thief time. Glancing at the full length mirror, she groans. Conservative dress, pumps, nylons, knee coat on her frame, black wig on the stand. She needs to be someone different soon, very soon. She is a fucking expert at that.
None a the usual wails, screams, shouts, gun shots down in alley ville. That’s a good thing. The Pony Club’s plinking red lit sign, blink, blink, blink is throwing down hues of blood neon along her skin.
On a table, there’s a computer monitor, green haze casting a pall also on her delicate face. Lining the walls there are book cases, slopped with books, classics, great poets, writers, other mad women and men just like her. Also, racks of CS’s, M&M, Chopin, Beethoven, NWA, Madonna, Katy, Taylor, Adele. Bruce and Sara, Isaac Perelman. Eclectic stuff, a lot like her, diverse, brilliant, wild, crazed, genius, troubled like her.
On the peg boards, lots a rejection slips, writing failure evident, clear, she fucked up, flamed out, big time. Beauty gets a bitch just so far; talent helps. Angry smoke puffs out of her nose, she slashes a stack of typed paper to the floor.
Agitated, annoyed, edgy, a spoiled whore, her eyes began to water, nose twitches, ticks, she stubs to death her smoke into an ash tray, kicks the table sending everything to hell.
IN the beginning, she had been indestructible.
A decade later, she had failed in every aspect of her twisted up life. Ten years of fucking around, years pissing down the drain, a melting banana split of a life, no life, a fucking disaster.
She had fucked more men for fewer reasons, lately women too who thought a grand laid on a table meant true love. Never felt anything, never an orgasm, never love, except when reading Tolstoy once.
Tricked out society bitches, Vermont, Connecticut, Manhattan too, lining cat walks like bulimic ghouls, loved her, craved her, adored her, she abhorred them. Wall Street con artful men, wanted her, lusted for her, all she could think about was shoving the tip, her 38 into her mouth, tasting the cordite and flames, ending it all, all of it.
On the con and grift for an entire life, she wasn’t pissed about that. In the end, because she was smart, real smart, needed protection, a power source, needed freedom to follow her passions she had sold out and had become The Fat Mans doll. She had found herself on her knees, head in the toilet, vomiting after the pig had screwed her the first time.
In the vortex now, life generating its own power, ready to make that leap of faith, maybe to death, she had decided no more fucking Tony. Nada, no more, she would die first. A %100 possibility if she fucked up, Tony got his sausage fingers around that neck, squeezing until his dick got hard, until her breath sucked back into her brain, brain dead. Hard decisions, hard times, maybe life, maybe death, dice cracking on her brain and whatever comes at least she’d feel pain before her last gasp, something she could not live without.
Chain smoking, Onetta fires up another smoke, flames drawing Mandals eyes, ticking at the old whore. In Mandals savant brain the beaten down old whore is an exact replica of herself down the road, if she hangs a moment longer; victim, is not a part of the deal.
Plume of smoke, Onetta’s voice, nervous, static, vibrates from fear into her ears.
“You know you’ve been like a daughter to me honey.”
Jerked head, Mandal stares and wonders.
What kind of daughter was that? What kind of mom would let her daughter suck Tony Uruguay’s fat cock; let him ram his dick into her daughter’s ass. Is that kinda mother you’re chatting me up about?
Fuck, nobody forced her to become her.
She played her cards, raised and, then folded, unable to take the pressure, pay the VIG and take the heat of life. Mandel deflates, falls to her knees and lay’s her blond on Onetta’s lap. An actress now, a sick trembling puppy now, mood freak, lips quivering now, the falling apart old whore pets her hair, her girls lips quivering.
“He’s a bad man Honey. He’ll find you. Hurt you bad. I’m scared honey...Real scared.”
No breath, pain, grief, Mandal is broken, seemingly defeated, satiated in fatigue, what a fucking sweet kid. Tears, a shattered angels face, she rises, stares at Onetta, concern on Onetta’s face, patriarchal old whore, mother, poor, poor, poor, beauty, as Mandal whispers.
“I love you mother. I’m not going back. Please mother, remember, you knew nothing...Okay Mom?”
Geeze what a darling Onetta thinks’.
She knows her tricked out mind, feel’s more fear than any other time in her life.
The stunning bitch is a killing machine, mostly of men’s dreams and souls. Her bone marrow freeze dries in her bones. Mandal, morphing, something else, easy, a chameleon with many skins, suddenly dire, a look of homicidal glee etched into her flawless face. The transformation from puppy to pit bull is mercurial, instant. Onetta sees it; feels like petrified wood by it.
Reaching up, Mandal roughly pinches Onetta’s cheeks, hard, between fingers, thumbs, glares into her struck eyes, seethes. “You understand mother? Nothing, were clear on this, correct. Absolutely fucking nothing.”
Words, like acid eating Onetta’s head, harder cement glare cranks Onetta’s fear. She can do nothing but nod her head up and down. Mandal, like a downer freak, scoring crank, smiles, kisses her on the cheek, release her face. Onetta breathes and can barely get the words out.
“Yeah honey, sure. Just be careful, ahh, he’s a very bad man.”
Hearing nothing, feeling nothing, no fear, adrenalin pumping ether through her veins, the perfect doll stands, smirks, snaps. “Fuck him.”
Baby girl stands, turns, walks to the bed, hefts stacks of twined hundred dollar bills, clicks them at Onetta’s and, then grins.
“All those years, with that fucking pig.” She waves the C-notes, smiles broader, “As far as I’m concerned were divorced.”
Flipping the money into the valise, she grabs another stack, winks at Onetta, floats it into the bag.
“Seven hundred and fifty grand, my fucking alimony.”
Onetta gawks, thinks, wishes, JESUS FUCKING CHRIST why can’t the crazy genius bitch just have a drug problem like her other whores.
Mandal, conservative coat on now, fidgets with her black wig. Suddenly her caustic mind turns beautiful.
Music and a voice like cut octaves of sunlight opens a door and struts in. It is Leontine Price, the Diva, like her.
“To tu Piccolo Iddio,” the haunting aria from Puccini’s Madam Butterfly soars through her brain. Her eyes go dreamy; this is how her brain works. The moment lasts, ends, her eyes swivel in their socket, go stainless, she is back, reborn hard again; this is what she is also.