Friday, October 16, 2009

armed to the teeth with LIPSTICK:16.

by Blag Dahlia


"I'm famished, darling. Let's stop for a bite."

Natasha steered her faithful pet into a dirty corner grocery. Entranced by the rows of unhealthy food, she sauntered transfixed up one aisle and down the next. Faust spied a group of Hispanic teenagers staring and pointing at them, but Natasha was oblivious.

"Oh, look, an old-fashioned whipped cream dispenser, can you imagine?"

She took a drag off the can and her knees buckled, eyes rolling back in her head. The floor and ceiling spun like a roulette wheel, offering the only escape her rancid psyche would ever know. But it was brief, always too brief. When she came to, a Puerto Rican youth was brandishing a handful of fruit at her and smiling broadly as she lay on the floor.

"You want some nice mangoes, huh, lady?"

Natasha viewed the young man with interest. He was olive skinned and the scent of salsa turned bad wafted off of him as he limped toward her, khaki pants covering his legs like vines. Miss Thing just licked her lips absently --

"And your testicles look absolutely gargantuan in those tight ethnic trousers."

Nathasha was pulled hard to her feet, but she never went limp. Faust didn't miss a beat either.

"Insolent whelp," he said, zapping the challenger with ten thousand volts from his fake arm.

The boy turned to mush and death was instant. When it's my turn to go I want it just as quick. I also want plastic flowers and front row center at Gilligan's Wake.

Meanwhile, the gang exchanged guttural Spanish and quizzical looks. As a rule their females took abuse much better than they dished it out, Venus as Mars.

"Oh darling, you mustn't," Natasha said to Faust with a gleam in her eye. "They're so...swarthy."

Slowly, deliberately, one of the gang pulled out a large stilleto. He eyed the pair, a jones for vengeance etched on his baby face.

"Fukk this pince midget and this fukking puta beech!"

Faust aimed a can of refried beans at the boy's temple and he too lay dead, decapitated on the floor.

Natasha let out a roar of throaty good cheer and put her spiked heel in a wanting jugular vein. Blood spurted like soda pop from a shaken can. Faust used his head and his height to good advantage, skull-butting gonads with obvious relish. When the skirmish was over, bodies and broken glass lay scattered everywhere.

Two frightened old men emerged from behind the counter. One held a sawed-off shotgun, his knuckles trembling white.

But, a group of urban bikers had been watching the scene unfold from outside. They disarmed the shop-keeper, grabbing his gun and filling their pockets with junk food and beer. A hulking bear of a man approached Natasha and Faust, surveyed the thrashed and wounded bodies struggling to their feet, and laughed out loud.

"These bean-eaters bugging you, precious?"

"Heavens, no. They're charming."

Her carnal interest in the Hispanics had been quickly replaced by this new group of greasy misfits, especially one limbless stump in battle fatigues who rode on a wooden plank with wheels.

"And who is this deviated specimen?" she asked, stroking the long, viscous hair that snaked down his shoulders.

"That's Bobo the Vet, sweetheart, the terror of Pan Moon Jong. I'm Elmo, Grand Dragon of the Hells Harlots Motorcycle Club."

At that moment, a blue light went on behind Natasha's black eyes and a plan began to take root in her twisted mind.

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