Prom queen, fentanyl, and ball peen hammers memories. A perfect cocktail.
Just be careful who you cross in this life.
Memory rises and goads me into replaying the past. What else is there to do?
Fred, my boyfriend went to check on how the vote for prom king and queen was progressing.
As it was, there I was, Priscilla Lyn, I stood still on the stage, sexily resplendent in an emerald green iridescent skin-hugging gown. Someone later said I had a smile that could kill ants. This was notable only due to the fact that a fellow contestant for prom queen just placed on the glittering crown on top of my blonde hairdo. The contest had been between me or ‘Cilla, as I was called, and Margot. In fact, I knew that everyone in the Prom gathering agreed silently that I won the contest hands down, but for some reason, the school principal ruled against my victory and gave it to Margot.
A close friend told me Margot had gone down on Mr. Perkins behind his desk in his office, the bastard. Had I known that…
Margot was at the moment in an ambulance racing to Brokaw Hospital, vomiting up blood. Just because a contestant falls ill, the show has to go on. As the follow-up, Cilla took the crown. Earlier in the evening, just before the vote, everyone saw both ravishingly beautiful girls standing together, chatting animatedly near the snack and refreshments stand.
“Hey Margo, drink this, it will calm your nerves down; you’ll thank me later.” I handed Margot a small plastic flask from my small emerald-sequined clutch.
Margot snatched the flask from Cilla. “Oh God thanks Cilla, you can’t imagine how I feel, oh yeah, a little rum, just what I need, Jesus. Tastes funny, oh well. Hey Cilla, thanks and looks like it’s just you and me. May the best person, or whatever, win. I bet Dick is thrilled too.” The girl that won meant that her boyfriend automatically was king. Wasn’t always that way, but it avoided many prom party problems. Half an hour later, the ambulance arrived.
Cilla recalled having grabbed the most sinister-looking stuff in her Dad’s workshop from the garage, the same stuff she’d used to kill her sister’s beloved rabbit Snuggles. The small can said something about removing stuck, rusty bolts. Her plan wasn’t really to kill Snuggles, but it didn’t matter, she realized shortly after the fact, with a cool detachment that she felt nothing over Snuggles’ red splattered whiskers as he agonized in his final, blood spitting moments in her stupid sisters’ arms.
I figured that as Margot was a whole lot bigger than a rabbit that it would just give her a bad case of the shits or some pain, nothing more. The blood vomiting she knew nothing of as it started in the ambulance. I thought: That’ll teach the little bitch to compete with me, there was no real contest anyway, I’ve got boobs that knock everyone out and legs that go forever as my dad always says lately. I remember the first time I gave the glorious twins to Fred, Jesus; he came in his pants. What a total jerkoff. During the games, we’d run out to the field with our pom-poms to warm up the crowd and the announcer introduced each of us. I always ran out last and he’d say: ’Now a big welcome for our two favorite cheerleaders please Cilla! Cilla!’ The principal finally stopped that, asshole.
After Margot had her stomach pumped, and after a week of regaining her strength in the hospital bed, her parents wanted to take the matter to the police. It being a foregone conclusion that Cilla had slipped something dangerous to their precious daughter. There was no proof.
Her parents persisted and threatened to continue the matter legally. It wasn’t until after eating at a Taco Bell and Margot went to get into her car and found her beloved cat Stiffles’ head, free of its body, resting in the drivers’ seat that her parents enthusiastically dropped all notions for proceeding in the issue.
If it weren’t that Fred was incredibly hot and the football team Captain and got a full scholarship into Hillsdale things may have gone differently. That’s where I’m going or so I thought, Hillsdale, shit, is that like a town named after the university. Fred wants to become a world-famous author, and I know he will. I mean some of those guys, like that one super famous guy, always smiling like the Cheshire Cat, can't remember. Ralph or Rudy something, that’s like his favorite writer, seems to have new bestsellers every time Fred drags me into a bookstore. The money!
That was years ago, it seems, the bastards. I found that fentanyl helped me through the rough times; I had tons of problems, no one understood me, they still don’t. But now I do okay preaching and teaching yoga.
In Hillsdale, I had my fentanyl supplier. He looked Mexican, even though he said he was from LA and didn’t know Spanish. He said he was a Zeta; I didn’t know what that was. Sometimes he just wanted to play with my tits and I’d get a huge discount, dumb ass!
Pretty soon I was shoplifting from Victoria Secret, Wall-Mart, Krogers, Woolworths. It was so easy. Fred found out that making millions writing wasn’t like he expected, dumb shit. After a while, I started doing tricks just to pay the rent and gasoline. I learned real quick to go after the town’s big rollers; they were easy to find; either at church or the bars. Actually, I enjoyed it. Fred told me that one of his professors was failing him. I found out I have significant power over these scum bags.
I’d set it up so that accidentally I’d bump into the problem professor in the universities’ cafeteria. All I had to do was smile, touch his knee under the table, then meet him later on, in a motel or his car if he was married. Fred was suddenly getting the best grades in class.
I found out it was easy to scare the married profs into paying me some serious cash. I’d say I had pictures, hell they didn’t know if I did or didn’t. I’d just tell them I was going to call Mrs something or other, like putty in my hands. Money, money, money.
One of those sorry bitches came after me, followed me home. As I was getting out of my car in my garage, this bitch attacks me with her tennis racket and I caved her skull in with a ball-peen hammer. Felt good too. This was new for me, damn it.
Fred turned me in. After the cops came around, he showed them the bloody hammer. My prints were all over. What the hell. He turned me in!
Baraga Prison wasn’t too bad, but it was much better on the outside. Some of us planned an escape. We were getting sick of Michigan winters. Our plan was to bust out of the hellhole and head to Miami. Before I did that I decided to pay Fred a final visit, you know, sort of a goodbye visit. I heard he had a new whore too. Well, maybe I shouldn’t say whore, I can be a little mean like that, I might work on that.
So Cilla learned a thing or two about self-preservation while in prison. She confirmed that killing didn’t bother her that much. She could kill and just switch off to it as calm as you please. Several fellow inmates were recipients of Cilla's special treatment. One who cheated Cilla out of some cash, another who against Cillas will wanted to get between her gorgeous legs. One more who was bullying new arrivals with a broomstick. Cilla used the broomstick to maximum effect on the bully. Everyone breathed easier because of it. Never busted for any of these activities, Cilla knew the meaning and usefulness of stealth.
Where Cilla walked, they gave her a wide berth.
“Here we go, ladies!” Was all I said once the red linen truck parked out back of the prison laundry.
We rolled ourselves up into sheets and stacked on top of the dirty pile in the truck. Before long we were headed out the damn prison gates!
The laundry truck made a stop at a Bob Evans restaurant and we piled out.
“Alright girls, it’s been fun, but I’m heading down my own way. Hope we don’t see each other back in Baraga.” That sure gave us a hearty laugh.
“Yeah, you too Cilla, where you headed?” A big black girl from Detroit asked.
“Well, Lotus Tweets, not too sure. All I know is that I have some things to fix in Hillsdale. Just some loose ends, you know. After that, I may try stealing cars. Go to Fresno and join Matty. She says it’s the best damn business there is. Who knows, one thing at a time.” After all, Cilla knew it wasn’t smart to share too much information.
Fred read that morning’s paper, Pepper had cooked him a plateful of pancakes, bacon, and eggs, his coffee was perfect. Outside the birds chirped loudly, Dick thought happily. A slight late Spring breeze blew as though, ‘ a harbinger of bliss dost blow…’ rambled through Freds’ wanna-be writer’s mind. Even though he never wrote nor fulfilled the writing dream he never stopped forming words into loftier configurations in his head. The muse flirted with him, he smiled knowingly, he shared this secret with the other great writers.
“Honey,”, he said. “Looks like I have to drive over to Warren, I have two follow-ups over there, cooling systems not doing like their supposed to. Hey, this is delicious babe. I should be home around six tonight, okay?”
Pepper deftly straddled his knees facing him, her sleeveless baby blue teddy hiking up revealing her light pink panties showing her beautiful thighs. She dutifully straightened out his company bow tie and pulled the wrinkle out of his crisp, white company shirt collar. On his shirt pocket, the monogram read: Jones Air Conditioning. “Okay hon, take care, drive carefully. I have to get to Do It Center for a new welcome mat and bathroom carpet.” She leaned forward and pecked him on the mouth, a touch wet, Fred was getting aroused.
Pepper jumped off his knees before anything happened and continued moving around pots and pans.
As Fred quickly scanned the local paper, he spotted the tucked-away tiny blurb on escapees from Baraga Prison. Three women escaped, Cillas name stood out like a gritty, blinking neon light flashing into the dark night of a dead city… Fred said nothing after all Baraga was nowhere near them, and years had passed.
He drove away in the small size, white company pickup truck, a little ladder on the roof, on the door the slogan: Jones Air Conditioning.
Cilla rolled up nice and quiet. It was a pretty though small house. Fred certainly never made millions, but he had a house. She parked down the lane from the house, walked back, and slipped into his two-car garage. To her surprise, she found a very feminine pink Vespa scooter parked close to the wall. She looked around and spotted what she was looking for. On the tool wall Fred set up was a beautiful ball-peen hammer, nice and heavy, though not so heavy that she couldn’t swing it in lethal fashion.
It surprised her when she heard the back door to the house open and slam. The unoiled screen door made a loud screech, warning her. Cilla hid behind a roll of insulation in the garage’s corner just as the door opened.
A young, short, attractive woman entered the garage, her tight-fitting nurse’s dress showed a fine figure. Asshole’s done alright, she thought.
Pepper climbed atop the Vespa and was about to reach over to throw the door switch to the garage.
Cilla reflected, still panting. ’Must be getting out of shape. That bitch didn’t go down even after I clobbered her twice, put a dent into her skull too! Oh, there’s what I’m looking for.’
‘This house could’ve been mine.’ thought Cilla as she busied herself.
She fired up a huge chainsaw, a Poulan Pro pr5020, perfect for the job. Within the half-hour, pretty and perky Pepper became pieces, white sneakers and all, and stuffed into four big black plastic bags. Unfortunately, the garage looked as though someone had spray painted the interior with red. It amazed her that just one person could paint so much.
She’d forgotten why it was she’d lost the opportunity for the happy life with Fred. Right now she only knew she had some unfinished business.
Fred arrived around six and parked in the garage. He turned off the car and headlights, but the automatic garage lights failed to light. The last thing he heard before he could get out of the truck was the horrendous racket of his powerful chainsaw startup.
&&&
“And now pulling upward, taking that deep, deep and slow breath, stretch, know you are here and present. Don’t force it, don’t force it, allow your body to take you along, let your mind rest as best you can without forcing…”
“Saraswati, can you help me get into that full curve? I have a real struggle to get it right…”
“Oh, you’re doing it wonderfully Florencia, patience is the master here, your body is your guide, your mind can take a back seat, patience my dear…”
I have to bite my lip so I don’t say something like, Jesus you fat old bitch, honey you could twist and turn your fat ass every way from Sunday and it’s just never gonna do you a damn bit of good.
&&&
I cleaned up the garage and bussed to Chicago. My bumpy flight to Mexico City and then Tapachula didn’t take so long. From there a cheap bus to Guatemala took me all the way to this little podunk, tree-hugging shit hole place called Antigua. The ex-pats who live there swear by god that it’s the most beautiful place.
I found a church full of suckers, and now I’m their fucking preacher! I teach yoga classes too using the church building. I learned how to do that at Baraga. Many of the ex-pat congregation are men that I have by the balls. You can guess. So I’m doing okay.
Every time I go to the funky Antigua hardware store I like to hold, you guessed it, the beautiful ball peen hammers… I even asked the hot attendant what Ball peen hammers were for and she told me the round part was perfect for pounding stuff flat…
