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Night Revelations in Bizarro Country-Poem by Dr. Mel Waldman
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No Place Like Home
ALAT
Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

ym_76_oct19_gangstagrl.jpg
Art by Londyyn Thomas 2019

GANGSTA GIRL

by J. Brooke

 



          THE old whore’s mind was rightfully fucked up. She was screwed, she knew it, but just how bad, she had not a 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 encased in asphalt 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 fingernails. 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 pounds 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-bys over a pile of shit.


The Pony had the perfect young bods which lacked brains, showed up routinely like naked lemmings 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. Cadillacs, Hummers, Gas hog SUVS, Chrysler Town Cars, all rides of choice. Big diamonds, big gold, pinky rings, heavy chains, lots a crosses, pictures of mothers in calf-skinned wallets, wops kinda ruled the roost. Lots a beehive 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, Micks, Greeks, Hebrews, black, brown criminals of every skin color. 

The ‘Pony’ was their club.

Outta Brighton Beach the ex-Soviet mob 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, Khmer 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. This was the way it was, when she and that magnetic, jeweled with diamond cunt had arrived years 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 bars, 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 apart 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 CD's, M&M, Chopin, Beethoven, NWA, Madonna, Katy, Taylor, Prince, Bruce and Sara, Isaac Perelman. Eclectic stuff, a lot like her, diverse, brilliant, wild, crazed, genius, troubled like her.

On the peg boards, lotsa 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 catwalks 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 gun oil 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 the 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 head 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 girl’s 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?"

Jeeze what a darling Onetta thinks.

She knows her tricked out mind, feels 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, we’re clear on this, correct? Absolutely fucking nothing."

Words, like a wood chipper 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, releases 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 and floats it into the bag.

"Seven hundred and fifty grand, my fucking alimony."

Onetta gawks, thinks, wishes, DAMN, 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.

Onetta feeling her teeth chattering, watches, thinks.

Ten years of Shakespeare, Miller, art lessons, the horses at Tony's Jersey Estate, cats, dogs, ‘The Fat Man’ had spoiled her rotten, anything and everything she ever wanted, except her love. French, Italian, even Jap language lessons, poetry this, writers that, painters, dragged to museums, Europe, poor fucking Tony, the bitch broke his balls and his wallet. Then sculpturing tutors, music teachers, on and on and on about some freak named Proust. Onetta has had enough. Get the fuck out of here you crazy whore and never come back.

She wants to shriek, she does not.

She'd rather deal with The Fat Man. 

The fact that he will probably murder her, cut her tits off, her fingers and toes too, set Bobby Ugo and Dim Dim on her, she cringes thinking about those two monsters. At least Dim Dim keeps his yap shut; at least he's fucking predictable.

Mandal grifts through her grifter ABC play book. She checks everything twice.

She nods her head, reaches into a drawer, withdraws a short barrel Smith &Wesson .44 magnum handgun. Grabs a box of bullets, winks at Onetta again and slots them in the bag next to her snub nose, private Catholic girl 38.

Picking up a floppy hat, she dons sunglasses, leers into the floor mirror. She looks like a fucking Betty Crocker Homicidal killer just let loose from some freak show prime time soap. Nothing she can do can hide her astounding beauty, but it's an attempt, a good start. She's so manic her head seems to be boiling and in her mind she looks like she's a girl going on vacation.

She may be right, a one-way ticket to the jaws of a car compactor in an automobile grave yard in Perth Amboy, but she doesn't think like that.

She's just a smart kid again, flipping off the nuns, running away from a girl’s school again. What can be the harm in that?

Her brilliant bean is spinning, she is so ready. Grabbing her single black leather valise, she turns, winks at Onetta, purrs. "Goodbye Mother, later."

Two steps, three, four she is out the door.

Onetta fumbles with her cigarette with shaking hands. After a moment of pure willpower fueled by fear, she stands, weaves, moves to the window facing the alley down below. Time passes and her heart is pounding, entire body vibrating. She sees her girl, down in the alley now strolling past a dumpster. It makes her cringe. She is positive it will soon be her coffin, disguised as a dumpster.

At a “T” in the alley the pure predator hesitates, looks this way and that, lights a cigarette and, then is gone into the shadows.

Instantly Onetta crumbles to the floor, weeping, satiated by terror, she vomits. On hands, knees she gawks at the filth that she has only ever known. On a clock face of a life that is numberless, she stands, feels her legs buckle, and presses her hands against the window for support, feels hot urine spilling down her thighs.

Nothing to do now except to buckle up, return to her world of problem solver for some of the most fucked up girls in the world. Turning, she moves across the room, out the door, gingerly closing it behind her. She hopes that it is a seal from the eclectic dangerous girl, one she hopes will never be ripped open again.

Unfortunately for her, she forgets that some doors needed to be nail gunned shut. Especially when the gal who just walked through it was the ex-whore girlfriend of one of the most dangerous and horrible men on the planet.

                                                


j brooke is a writer with over 100 credits, and never lists them. It's simple for j, for it’s never what you have already written, but what you are going to write next. Contact info: jbrooke2001@yahoo.com

Londyyn Thomas resolutely eschews any mythologizing of an artist and so avoids discussing personal life and relations.












In Association with Black Petals & Fossil Publications 2019