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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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
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
the case of the girls, they
got the hell kicked out of them if they didn't deliver.
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."
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
‘Pony’ was their club.
Brighton Beach the ex-Soviet
mob boys came. They lived large, for America was large.
beautiful, no. Land of milk and honey, no."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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;
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
the beginning, she had been
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
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
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.
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.
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,
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.
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.
of smoke, Onetta's
voice, nervous, static, vibrates from fear into her ears.
know you've been
like a daughter to me, honey."
head, Mandal stares and
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?
nobody forced her to
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.
a bad man, Honey.
He'll find you. Hurt you bad. I'm scared honey...Real scared."
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
love you mother. I'm
not going back. Please mother, remember, you knew nothing...Okay Mom?"
what a darling Onetta
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.
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."
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.
honey, sure. Just
be careful, ahh, he's a very bad man."
nothing, feeling nothing,
no fear, adrenalin pumping ether through her veins, the perfect doll stands,
girl stands, turns, walks
to the bed, hefts stacks of twined hundred dollar bills, clicks them at
Onetta's and, then grins.
those years, with
that fucking pig." She waves the C-notes, smiles broader, "As far as
I'm concerned were divorced."
the money into the
valise, she grabs another stack, winks at Onetta and floats it into the bag.
hundred and fifty
grand, my fucking alimony."
gawks, thinks, wishes, DAMN,
why can’t the crazy genius bitch just have a drug problem like her other
conservative coat on
now, fidgets with her black wig. Suddenly her caustic mind turns beautiful.
and a voice like cut
octaves of sunlight opens a door and struts in. It is Leontine Price, the Diva,
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.
feeling her teeth
chattering, watches, thinks.
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.
wants to shriek, she does
rather deal with The Fat
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.
grifts through her
grifter ABC play book. She checks everything twice.
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.
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.
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.
just a smart kid again,
flipping off the nuns, running away from a girl’s school again. What can be the
harm in that?
brilliant bean is
spinning, she is so ready. Grabbing her single black leather valise, she turns,
winks at Onetta, purrs. "Goodbye Mother, later."
steps, three, four she is
out the door.
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.
a “T” in the alley the pure
predator hesitates, looks this way and that, lights a cigarette and, then is
gone into the shadows.
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.
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
Thomas resolutely eschews
any mythologizing of an artist and so avoids discussing personal life and