I get along quite well with someone only when he is at his lowest point and has neither the desire nor the strength to restore his habitual illusions—EM Cioran
What it is is this. This angelic piece of pussy, 24 years old—I can spot her age on the bubble—brown hair, pulled back in a pony, white t-shirt, blue jeans, and on the t-shirt—get this—she has two blue stars right where her nips are.
Carries one bag with her—black military surplus—a mid-sized duffel. Boots. Skechers. Black. Thick soles, like to sell to city kids who like to pretend they're gonna be climbing mountains. Black belt. Silver buckle. Mens'. White girl. No makeup. Fresh skin—a few marks lower side of her left cheek. Not pimples..like where pimples used to be.
I can see her raised nipples from across the street.
They're the size of dimes.
They're popping up through those glittery blue stars on her shirt.
I want to cut them off with a box cutter—big erasers—leaving blood streams running down her breasts and down her stomach..and eat those erasers like a raw sausage, right in front of her, let her watch me chew them, let her know she'll never feel from them again..then go to work on the rest of her with the razor blade.
Oh and it's my lucky day—because those sweater puppies are a perfect B/C cup—sized 'em up from here.
This flaunty little bitch raises her head, crosses the street, comes right into Betsy's, Betsy says:
"Sit at the bar or pick a table, hun. I'll be right with you."
Blue stars walks right behind me.
She doesn't see me looking at her in the mirror over Betsy's cash register that runs the length of the wall.
I smell her, timing my breath so I'm inhaling right as she passes.
I can smell fabric softener, which (combined with the condition of her hair) means she hasn't been on the road long—she's probably changed clothes in a bathroom somewhere along the way as she doesn't look like she's from anywhere less than a day from here by bus.
I can smell her deodorant, the white, flaky kind—I would guess Secret Invisible Solid Powder. That's a habit I'll rid her of right away. We don't wear deodorant in the crate.
Her head is cocked back, like this bitch has spirit, and I can't tell you how attractive that is to me. It's spirit I like to break.
I squirm in my seat and watch the girl take a booth, setting her duffel bag on the bench across from her and putting her feet up next to it.
Betsy brings me my French toast.
"Thank you, Mrs. Langton."
She looks over at blue stars.
"Now I've gotta go take care of city girl," Mrs. Langton says.
"You want me to do it?" I say. "Bet I could handle her for you."
"How 'bout I butter her up and you put her on the griddle," Betsy says.
"That's a deal," I say, smiling and picking up my coffee.
I can hardly eat thinking of Little Miss Blue Stars and what kind of pussy she has. I spend my entire meal thinking of pubic hair stuck to white panties on hot bus rides, imagining her tiny ass shifting countless times in the Greyhound seat, the sun beating its rays into her lap and making the inner part of her thighs perspire. I imagined her pussy sweating—and invariably a drop of white liquid coming out her tiny vaginal hole. I wanted to lick that up for her—then stab her in the heart with my Pakistan—this special knife I like to stab people in the heart with—then eat her pussy up for the rest of her short life—give her something to enjoy while her internal clockwork slowed down and eventually came to a stop.
Her eyes would be glass.
And I'd still be eating that pussy, wondering how long she could feel sensation after the outward signs pointed to dead. I'd give her a good three minutes before I stopped licking her pussy hole, just in case somewhere inside she was still alive. I wanted her to have something nice to die to—and what's nicer than having your pussy licked by the man who killed you?
Betsy took my dishes and said something I didn't hear.
I was lost in visions of Blue Stars.
I said, "They were good, thank you Betsy."
Betsy raises her voice. She says, "I said are you gonna fuck that girl?"
"Mrs. Langton!"
We make eyes.
"Someone has to," I say, and set down my coffee.
Betsy shakes her head and takes my dishes.
I leave money on the counter and go to the booth next to Blue Stars. An old man everyone calls Samson is sitting there.
"Hey Ol' Sam."
"Good morning young man."
"How many times you gonna read that paper?"
Samson points at a sentence on the front side.
"They can't spell! They can't spell! There was a time not too long ago when to run a newspaper you had to be able to spell."
"I know, I can't read the thing."
"A little grammar might help, too!"
"What do you care about the livestock news, Samson?"
"And that's the other thing!" he practically yells. "It wouldn't hurt if the newspaper had a story every month or so!"
"Samson," I say. "You know nothing ever happens in Pain."
He waves me off with the newspaper.
I go to the next booth.
Blue Stars pretends not to see me. She's half my age.
"I got some work. You lookin' for work?"
She looks up, just with her eyes.
"What does it pay?"
"Don't you want to know what kind of work it is?"
"Ok, what kind of work is it?"
She says this like I'm wasting her time and her defiance makes me want to fuck her—not do the usual thing, you know, but marry the bitch and knock that defiance out of her night by night with my dick.
"It's work with pigs and horses."
"Doing what exactly with them?"
"Do you mind if I sit down?"
She kicks her duffel bag up against the wall and puts her feet on the floor.
I sit across from her and lean in, my elbows on the table.
"I need a shoer—do you mind if I ask your real name?"
"My real name? As opposed to my fake name?"
"Do you mind if I ask your name?"
"It's Angel."
"Bullshit that ain't your real name and you know it."
"It's my real name if when you talk to me you want me to answer."
"Well Angel, I need a shoer—do you know what a shoer is?"
"Someone who puts shoes on horses?" she says, like I'm asking her two plus two.
"That's right but I also need a hammer man."
"I guess you got the wrong girl, then, 'cause I obviously ain't no man."
"Obviously."
"Obviously."
She swivels her head.
And I say, "Can I see your tits?"
"What the fuck did you just say to me?"
"You're advertising 'em with those stars, honey—I can see your nipples, diameter depth and firmness, from across the room. All I'm asking for is a little peek."
She smiles. Pretends to read the menu.
"What does a hammer girl do?"
"A hammer girl takes a hammer and hits cows in the forehead thereby killing them in a low-tech but humane manner. It's how you kill a cow on a small farm."
She stares at me.
"You hit 'em right between the eyes."
"You said pigs and horses," this 24 year old comes back at me.
"Well it's pigs horses and cows."
"What's it gonna be next, dogs and cats?"
"I have dogs and cats, too. Are you a dog person? A cat person?"
"It's not really about me being a dog person or a cat person," this beautiful specimen of female says to me. "It more about in one sentence you saying pigs and horses then in the next sentence you throwing in cows. I mean you might be paying me to hammer cows and the next day I'm hammering dinosaurs. You know what I mean? It makes a girl nervous."
She goes back to looking at the menu.
"Have you ever heard of the burrito theory," I say.
She looks up at me.
"I'm trying to order breakfast."
"The breakfast here isn't very good. Let me make you something at my place. Betsy can't cook worth shit."
"Tell me about the burrito theory."
"Well. You know a burrito, right?"
"Yes I know a burrito."
"Well, you know a taco, right?"
"I know a taco!"
"So, the burrito theory states that all Mexican food is basically the same. Take a burrito and replace the flour tortilla with a corn tortilla and you've got a taco shell. Deep fry the tortilla you've got a chimichanga or something. Lay the burrito flat and cut it in slices..you've got quesadillas! Basically..everything..is a burrito. Except enchiladas. Enchiladas have their own sauce and that sets them apart from all other Mexican food and personally I think that's why they're the best Mexican food available and that's why I always order enchiladas wherever I go. Do you like enchiladas?"
"Yes but—"
"That's good I thought you were a smart girl."
"What does this theory have to do with anything?"
"Oh, right. So you take a pig. You give it bigger hooves, stand it up, get it out of the mud, make its legs longer, make it skinnier, and instead of oink oink you make it say neeeeiiigggghhhhh!! Now it's a horse!! Give it spots! Now it's a cow!! Look, there's all kinds of animals on my farm and I can't give you a list of every single one! There's snakes, too—that bother you?"
"No. How much does it pay?"
"You don't mind being a hammer girl?"
"I wouldn't mind it for a hundred dollars a day."
"What if I said fifty."
"You can pay me fifty dollars a day to kill cows?"
"Yeah, well, it's killing cows—I mean that's the fun part—but it's also sweeping up dust that gets all over my porch. Have you noticed we have lots of dust around here? Well it gets all over my porch and I like to sit on my porch and read and I can't read if there's dust everywhere. And it's other things."
"Like what?"
"Like whatever I ask you to do."
"Be specific."
"Like feed the cats."
"You're gonna pay me fifty dollars a day to feed your cats."
"Well I forget."
"You forget to feed your cats?"
"There's rats for them to eat on the days I forget!"
"You make your cats eat rats???"
"I don't make them. But for example you could clean the stove."
"You're gonna pay me fifty dollars a day to clean your stove."
"I don't like to touch grease!"
I say it so loud, heads in the restaurant turn.
"Ok. Jesus. Look, I gotta ask you straight up front is this one of those Craigslist Guy seeks girl as live-in companion, Rent is zero dollars a month kind of deals? 'Cause I'm not into that."
"Listen, Blue Stars—"
"Angel."
"Angel. There's a barn. There's a couch. You can sleep in either. The house has two full bathrooms—front one's yours. I respect your privacy, you respect mine. That's how we do it in Pain. Notice I never asked you where you were coming from?"
"Right."
"And I never asked where you were going to?"
"Right."
"I'm never going to. And I'd prefer not to get a lot of questions from you, either. You know like if I was ever married, shit like that? They call it Pain for a reason, and maybe it ain't this place is full of pain. Maybe it's 'cause some of us came here to run from pain—you know what I mean?"
"Yeah," the girl says quietly.
She puts the menu down.
"Will you really make me breakfast at your house?"
"You low on cash?"
She nods barely.
"All it's gonna be is eggs and bacon."
Her eyes look up at me. She nods.
"Alright, let's get out of here."
I get up, let her get her own bag, and we head out the front of Betsy's. Betsy rolls her eyes at me as she's drying a coffee mug.
There's one truck parked on the street—it's mine. Everyone else lives close enough to walk. I'm out of town a little.
I cross the street and Angel follows.
"You know I know that taco theory is bullshit, right?"
"It's burrito theory and what do you mean it's bullshit?"
"Like..bullshit..like not reality!"
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-four."
"Then what the fuck do you know about reality?"