Saturday, September 14, 2013

Every Bitch For Himself

12:45 PM. Union Station, Los Angeles. A tall man in his twenties with a torn t-shirt and Army boots strode out the front entrance of the train station with a grip in his hand looking around for an automobile. He fetched dozens of stares with his full head of silver hair, an almost artificial silver paint tone of hair. His name was Big Jason Gulliver. He quietly cussed out of his long, thin face which looked like the craggy side of a mountain. "Fuck!"

Holding his temper, he stomped over to a phone booth and plunked two dimes in, racked the dial seven times and waited.
"I'M HERE PICK ME UP YA FUCKIN' CHIMP!" barked Jason and hung up.

Jason stoically stood at the curb waiting for his ride when a sleek Mercedes Benz convertible slowly cruised by, piloted by a middle-aged man with feathered hair, aviator glasses and a dark moustache. The Bee Gees were whimpering a disco song out of his car radio. The driver appraised Jason, who simply snorted two times and then hocked a huge sluice of green loogie just barely missing the expensive auto. The driver frowned and sped away in a huff.

"HEY FUCKER!" yelled a skinny blonde out the window of a dirty and dented 1974 Chevrolet Vega.
"Finally!" Jason yelled back. "You were supposed to be here already. Some homecoming, asshole!"
"BBIIIIIGGGG....JASON! Hahahaha! Get in the Shit Box!"
Jason piled in to the Vega, which made a point of making the loudest screech, tires burning the asphalt, earning everybody's attention.

1:00 PM. Allen Wrench drove the Vega going west down Sunset Boulevard, popping in a cassette of The Vibrators, screaming "YEAH!YEAH!YEAH!"
"Big Guy! Good to see ya back! What the fuck?"
"Good to be back from Frisco".
"How was San Fran?"
"A lot of pot smokers, ehhhh, even the punks smoked dope, it was lame. All the bands there thought they were like Richard Hell or some shit. A lot of poetry, a lot of art shit".

"That sucks, Bubs. Bet you're glad to be back!"

"Yeah, back in LA. Got some big plans, too...what's that fuckin' smell?"
"What? What smell?"
"It's like something's cooking, you know, burning Crisco, like a bad breakfast", Jason wrinkled his nose.
"It's the Vega, Buddy. Burns oil like crazy and smells like a horse turd".

Jason picked up a red licorice whip in a bag and it was melted into a weird shape. He chewed part of it and gave up. Allen Wrench's face lit up.
"Hey! Did you hear the news? Sack Face died last week, OD'd on some bad junk, probably cut with rat poison or some shit. Found him in a puddle of piss with his face looking bluer than the Scientology building".
"Sack Face died? No shit? Anybody tell his Mom?"
"Not me. Fuck that noise!"

Wrench wheeled the car over to the curb, making another screeching stop. "Welcome back!"
Jason leaned over to Alan. "Can you get the guys together tonight? I've got some big plans. Money making plans".
"Sure thing. And we can have a little send-off for Sack Face in style".
Big Jason smiled and winked. "Set it up for me, willya?"

Big Jason and Allen Wrench got inside an apartment that had beat furniture, an open Murphy Bed in the corner, singles, albums, and punk clothes strewn all over the floor.
"He's here!" Wrench yelled and raced off into his bedroom.
"Jason is that you?" a girls' voice yelled from the kitchen.
"I smell bacon and eggs. Is that for me?"

A tall, slender girl with dark skin ran out of the kitchen and into the living room. She had short, spiky black hair with bright red streaks shooting through.
"No! This is for you!" she ran over and kissed him in a tight embrace.
"Enough with the kisses. How about the food?"
"Not ready yet. How was Frisco?"
"It was damper than a baby's shit pants. Too many fat fuckin' punks, too. They oughta drop and do twenty".
"Hahaha, Jason. You're a fuckin' card!" laughed Raquel Tequila.

Raquel Tequila wasn't Latina at all, in fact she was high yellow and her real name was Selma Franks. Her resemblance to Raquel Welch and her fondness for eating only Tortilla chips and drinking cheap Thrifty Drug Store Tequila without throwing up earned her the name of Raquel Tequila. She had the most intense pair of hazel eyes and they were virtually hypnotic.

While Big Jason shoveled the food down his maw Raquel smoked a cigarette and kept ruffling his hair, delighted it was painted electric silver with black streaks.
"BJ! Who did your hair!"
"Now don't call me BJ unless you're planning on doing it!"
"Shut up, Jason!" she laughed, punching him in the arm.

"You took down The Clash photos and put up some Weirdos and Dickies pics. Cool!"
"Yeah, I'm not too hot on The Clash this week since Mick Jones grew out that hippie hair".
"Poseur", he blurted and gulped a glass of Hawaiian Punch.
Raquel took a drag of her smoke and brightened up. "Hey, did you hear about Sack Face?"
"Yeah. Sack Face died. Maybe we should put up a collection and raise something for him".
"Don't bother. Lily made an anonymous phone call to the cops and they picked up his body".
"Lily? She still working at the club?"
"Yeah, she even pinned a note on his chest with his parents' phone number on it".
Jason chortled. "Accommodating bitch".

3:00 PM. Jason Gulliver sprawled out on a bench in the laundromat watching his clothes spinning around. He looked around cautiously, leaned over his army fatigue pants and reached down to his ankle, feeling for the Colt .45 strapped inside his army boot. A little Mexican boy ran up to him and stared at his silver hair, making Jason straighten up and pull his eyelids down, making a Frankenstein face. The boy ran away frightened.

Jason tapped his foot nervously, humming "We Got The Neutron Bomb" to himself, wishing he had that melted licorice whip on him now. A buff punk in paint splattered jeans and cowboy boots came in snapping his fingers. He had a forked out thatch of brown hair with the back and sides of his head shaved off so that he looked like Fred Flintstone.

"Jace! Back from Frisk!"
"Robotman! Sit down, fag!" Jason pushed some newspapers with Jimmy Carter's face on the front page out of the way.
Robotman jerkily sat down and twitched a little. "Long time, man. Doin' your wash?"
"Never mind that. What are you doing for money these days?"
"You know I'm still working at the club".

"Ah, fuck that, there's no money in that shit. I have a way we can kick up some serious scratch. Are you with me?"
"Fuck, Jason, I'm your man, you know that. What do you have in mind?"
"I'll tell you and the guys later. Your brother still a big gun collector?"
"Yeah, that dick loves his guns. Even sleeps with one under his pillow".

Jason nodded his head, thinking. " still with Crazy Dahlia?"
"Don't call her that, it's just Dahlia, she's a cool girl".
"No she's not and look down your pants every once in awhile to make sure you still have your balls attached if she hasn't ripped them off yet".
"Aw c'mon, Jason".

"I'm calling a meeting at the garage tonight. Get there about tennish and don't squeak a word of it to Dahlia, understand?"
"Alright, Jason, don't get pissed". Robotman got up and jerkily stretched himself. "Gotta return the car, Dahlia needs it, see ya tonight".
Robotman dashed out of the laundromat, snapping his fingers again. Jason chuckled bitterly. "Pussy whipped".

Peering around the corner of a washing machine was the little boy looking for more horrifying faces. Jason ignored him, threw his head back and closed his eyes. The little boy made a pistol with his hand and pretend shot at him.

The complete edition of EVERY BITCH FOR HIMSELF is available in eBook form via Amazon Kindle, iTunes, Barnes & Noble Nook and other eReaders. Don't miss it!

(c) 2013, Andy Seven. All rights reserved.

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