Sitting in a yellow corner in the last whorehouse alley on the outskirts of Vila Mimosa waiting for my little blond with the bullet hole under her armpit and ghosts at her back. She told me to meet her here and she appears around a dark corner and we walk together to the sleazy hotel Canario where a new sign in Portuguese and English tells you, “You are being film. Just say it the no is to the drugs.” The arm of the reptilian New World Order’s agenda has a long reach.
In the room she keeps her clothes on and is in no hurry to get busy with the business at hand so I play it cool. She wants to talk, unload some deep-seated mighty burden of disgust and for whatever reason she’s selected me to be her confessor tonight. She’s crumbling under the unbearable weight of some internal horror and the nightmare life that’s manifested from the cruel projector behind her eyes. She hates her parents for their cruel mistreatment of her and each other and it goes off into her life from there. Everything is shit and complaint, to the extent that she worries she’s been a victim of dark witchcraft, a macumba done against her by some other jealous whores, her neighbors on the dingy staircase in front of the house where they all work. She tells me for the last week all she wants to do is sleep and everything she eats tastes like rotten garbage. I wanna tell her the taste is coming from within, having had quite a bit of experience with soul nausea, but for now I just bite my tongue and play with her marvelous pink left nipple.
She complains about everything and everybody, from the place she works to the place she’s from to the nameless hordes of shirtless scrawny dog-men that float by her angry porch like an endless river of shit. She’s so sick of ’em all, she says. She tells me she’s been asking different customers about getting a straight job and she laughs darkly as she describes the most attractive offer someone came up with. One of her regular clients works for the downtown hospital, she says, and he told her of a well-paying job in the city morgue washing and grooming the fresh corpses that come in, cleaning up the stab and gunshot wounds of murder victims and stitching up the flesh dummies after autopsy.
She gave me a sincere look as she said she was really thinking about it.
“The pay is pretty good,” she grinned, “and they even give you some training for a week with full pay before you have to start.”
Then smiling grimly, her hate returning like a buzzard’s shadow she added, “at least the dead ones can’t bug you anymore with their shit. I think I’ll get along better with them than the live ones.”
“Sounds pretty good to me” I said as I worked her panties down over her hips. “You should try it, ya never know. You may have found your calling in life…”
Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2011.
* Check back Thursday for Part II.
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