Adult Content

“Easy as a Spring Dress” – a Pinky Black prequel!

So I’ve been sitting on this one for several months. Submitted it to a flash fiction zine, but it didn’t get picked up. Since I have since taken the character I invented here and fleshed him into the noble savage that is Pinky Black, I thought some of you might like to see the very first aspect of our hard hitting friend of Jimmy the Gent.

Here’s “Easy as a Spring Dress.”

It was a quarter past one, and the heat of the sun beat down from a brilliant, clear sky with only slightly less fury then what my fists had just finished delivering to the poor sap on the ground in front of me. I nudged him with my foot. He groaned. Good.

Wasn’t dead.

Yet.

I bent down and looked at the bloody, broken mess that fifteen minutes before had been an asshole named Danny. He thought he was a tough one, I guess. Dressed like it. Walked like it. Talked like it. But when it came time to throw down, he’d merely gone down, like a sack full of cinder blocks and questionable evidence in a deep bay. I kicked him a bit harder, for good measure. He coughed up a bit of blood, and sobbed. I probably should have felt bad for that. I didn’t.

“Last chance, Danny,” I said, slightly louder than a whisper, but no more. He deserved having to strain to hear me. “I told you once before, if you ever touched her, I’d hurt you.”

I took a breath, looked over my shoulder at the girl cowering against the alley wall. Her face wore hurt and terror like a spring dress, loose and comfortable. That did make me feel bad. I hated that she’d run out here to see this, but you know? Maybe that was good, too.

“Believe it or not, Danny, I don’t like violence. I’m just good at it, see? I tried, I tried real hard, to let you off easy last time, but you didn’t listen. So you bought this, Danny.”

He groaned again. I sighed.

I didn’t make it a habit of being a hero. Wasn’t my gig. I was much better at being a low man, a hard man. And men like me, well, we don’t make good heroes. But there are some things I can’t abide, and one of them is beating on someone who couldn’t defend themselves. I guess I had a little streak of soft in me. Marbling in the meat, if you will.

“This is my last talk with you, Danny. I’ll be watching. I see another bruise on that girl, and you will never lay a hand on another living soul again. She so much as trips and skins her knee, and I’m going to assume it was you. No more warnings, no more beatings.”

I paused, leaned real close.

“No more Danny. You have my word,” I whispered.

He shook, and the sharp smell of piss confirmed that he’d gotten the message. I stood up, picked his jacket up from where he’d dropped it before the fight, and used it to wipe his blood off my fists. The girl stared at me the whole time, as I brushed off the dirt from my knees and cleaned his gore from my boot.

That’s when I saw it.

In her eyes, I saw a glimmer. The blossoming of something wicked, dark. I saw her picking a fight, saw him walking away. Saw her remembering my words, and acting on them. He didn’t have to hit her. She could bruise herself just as easy. But I’m a man of my word, if nothing more. Danny better hope he sees that glimmer too. Better hope he recognizes it, and doesn’t piss her off. Or else he’ll find out just how easily that sack full of cinder blocks goes down, with him as the questionable evidence.

I left him there. Her too. As I walked out of the alley, I saw her smile.

And that hurt, that terror? It fell off her, easy as a spring dress.

“Bad Parents” – Chuck Wendig’s Weekly Flash Fiction Challenge. TRIGGER WARNING

Just in under the deadline, here is my story for Chuck Wendig’s challenge from this past week. A story about “Bad Parents”, 1000 words or less.

This is not the story I originally intended to tell. That one I wrote, rewrote, rewrote again, and then finally deleted. I’m not ready to tell that one yet.

This one is dark, very dark. I give you fair warning now that it is about child abuse, murder, and such like things. If this is the kind of thing that upsets you, skip this one.

No one ever tells you about the smell. The movies, the shows, they make it look almost…glamorous, when you shoot someone. A bang, a puff of smoke, a bright light, a splatter of pretty crimson that paints the wall like that abstract painter guy…Jackson-something. Mom always liked his stuff. I didn’t get it. The smell is terrible. Like copper and shit and sewage. Maybe it’s different if you shoot them somewhere other than the balls and lower stomach?

Christ. I can hear him still. I wish he’d die but I don’t have the stomach or the will to shoot him again. And maybe…maybe I kind of want him to suffer, even if each groan that escapes his lips makes me feel like vomiting. Even through the door, I can hear him dragging himself across the floor croaking a strange, strangled, gurgling noise like some sort of sick frog. Disgusting. Bleeding and shitting all over the floor, no doubt. Mom is going to be so pissed off.

After all, he is…was…her husband.

I look down at the gun in my hand and I wonder how many bullets I have left. I never really learned about them. I mean, I knew the basics, but I didn’t even know how to load or reload or whatever you are supposed to do with them. I do know you point the dangerous end and you flip the safety thing and you pull the trigger. And not the button that makes the bullet-thingy fall out. I guess TV is good for something after all, huh? There’s always that ditzy girl who points the gun and presses the wrong button. Or gets reminded the safety is on. Dumb!

I wonder if I should shoot her too. Mom, I mean. Part of me screams at the idea, revolts. Another…not so much.

She let it happen, after all. She had to have known. No…she did know. I can’t make excuses for her. She knew. I told her. I told her what he was doing, how he was touching me…there. I feel sick again, just thinking about it. Have to force myself to stop. She knew, but she didn’t do anything about it. He was husband number three, after all, and she wasn’t getting any younger. She said that all the time.

So she put up with the shit. The laziness. The yelling. The name calling. The slaps, the punches, the bruises. The way he looked at me, her daughter. She listened when he lied and when he locked himself in my room she bought that the door must have “accidently” locked itself. When I would find any excuse I could to be with her, she said I was just too clingy. Seperation Anxiety? Really Mom?

I didn’t tell her at first. I was scared. Scared that he’d hurt me worse, hurt her worse. He threatened that he would. Said that if I told he would beat the shit out of her, break her, make sure no other man would ever want to be with her again. Did I want that? Huh, sweetie? You want your mom to have to earn her living lying on her back for ten dollars a pop, cause she sure as hell wouldn’t make more than that when he got finished with her.

But then one day she found me. Crying. Rocking. She took me in her arms and she rocked with me and she asked me.

“Cass, sweety? Is there something wrong?”
And I felt warm. Safe. I told her.

I still feel the sting of her hand. The bruises have faded but I still feel each punch. My hair still hurts when it remembers her dragging me through the hall, screaming and calling me a liar, a whore, a filthy little tempter. It was my fault, see. I shouldn’t dress like such a slut. She burned my makeup and my music and most of my heart that day.

“Casssss.”

What’s left of my heart plummets. He moans out again.

“Casssssss…c…c…call…..9…”

He stops, coughing. I hear something thick and wet splatter against the wood floor, and something in me snaps.

I open the door.

He’s right there. The smell is even worse now. The floor doesn’t look like a pretty painting. It looks horrible. Dark. Brownish. I gag. He looks up at me. Kind of looks like one of those monsters, zombies. I don’t know…I don’t like those shows. Too gory. He reaches out his hand.

“Cass…sw…sweetie…”

There is a pop, a shockingly loud pop and a ringing in my ears before I even realize I’ve shot him. There is a strange, gurgling rattle, and then he’s quiet. The only sound is the ringing in my ears.

I close the door. I cry. I can’t help it. God, what am I going to do? I sit there, at the door. I sit there for a long time.

And then I hear it. Keys in the lock. Mom is home. I look down. How many bullets are left?

I don’t know.

Maybe just one.

My hands tremble. I am so fucked. So, so fucked. The door begins to open. For a moment, it really is just like the movies. Everything is slow, deliberate. I look at the gun and I think, yes, maybe there’s just one more bullet left.

I raise my arm. The gun is so, so heavy. Heavier than I thought it would be. The door swings wider. I sit straighter. Proper. Ladylike. She walks in all fake smiles and empty cheer and an arm full of crap. She looks at me.

“Cass, sweetie? Is there something wrong?”

I smile. I press the gun beneath my chin, and I wonder.

Will she believe me now?

There are some things I can no longer excuse… (TRIGGER WARNING: Child Abuse)

Alright, folks. Time for a more serious posting. This one is about someone that I never met, but who has, regardless, had a tremendous impact on my life. She was one of the founders of the living history/medieval group that I am part of, and an incredibly influential writer of science fiction and fantasy. Her name was Marion Zimmer Bradley.

And she was a child molester.

I have known for a long time that MZB was surrounded by controversy. Her husband, Walter Breen, was a reprehensible man who fairly openly molested young boys, a fact that Marion was both aware of and covered for, countless times. As a survivor of sexual abuse myself, I found her excuses to be despicable…but I always found a way to empathize with, if not accept, her position. She said in one of the depositions for his trials to one of the prosecutors, “Clearly, you have never been in love.” That spoke to me. I know too well what it is like to love someone enough to excuse their wickedness, to want to make believe it didn’t happen and to, no matter how wrong it is to do so, want to brush that part of them under a rug and pretend it doesn’t exist.

Then, a couple weeks ago, something happened. Moira Greyland, MZB’s daughter with her monster of a husband, spoke up. She told the world that, horrible as he was…MZB was worse. She had abused Moira since she was three years old, up until she was twelve. She beat her, strangled her, and attempted to drown her for refusing to be her own mother’s lover. It is a horrid, sickening thing to read about, but I read it because the truth is more important than my discomfort. Now, I have to question all that time I spent silently excusing MZB’s actions. I have to gag at how often I mentioned, almost proudly, that she had named and helped found my medieval group.

There are those who will say that we should separate the art from the artist. That these terrible crimes in no way taint the artistic works of the person who committed them. Alas, I am not so able to separate my emotions on this matter. When I was a young boy, I was sexually abused by a teenage cousin. The memories of that stick with me to this day, and it took many years to get over the feelings of anxiety they caused in me. So maybe I am just too emotionally swayed by this to forgive the art of the artist. Thing is, a monster may make beautiful art, but I still wouldn’t have it hanging in my living room.

So tonight, I am going to throw out the books I own that are by MZB. Granted, I wasn’t a huge fan, but I do have some of her anthologies. I will also never buy anything that her estate profits from; her children were disowned, and the money from her estate supports her life-partner/secretary, who also had a hand in covering up the abuses of Breen and MZB. I don’t expect everyone I know will do this. I’m not asking them to. But it’s something I must do.

Here are some links for those who want to read more about this mess.

http://deirdre.net/marion-zimmer-bradley-its-worse-than-i-knew/

http://www.sff.net/people/stephen.goldin/mzb/

#FFC52 – 2014 Flash Fiction Challenge Week 25 – “The Verdict”

Image

Howdy all. This week’s entry for the ever awesome Thain in Vain’s Flash Fiction Challenge is below. The theme?

Your protagonist is a member of jury about to hear the sentencing of the criminal you just convicted.

I decided to do two things with this story. One, I wasn’t going to reveal the sentencing, which, contrary to what they show in the movies, doesn’t necessarily happen immediately following the verdict. And two, I decided to continue exploring a character I introduced in Chuck Wendig’s latest challenge.

So here is “The Verdict”

It was weird being on this side of the box. How many times had I sat with the defense, waiting for people just like this to decide my fate? Watching their faces, some angry, some bored, some with empty, far-looking gazes.

I’d lucked out. No convictions. Not saying I wasn’t guilty, but never beyond a reasonable doubt. That’s what mattered. My lawyer was slick, sure. Jimmie the Gent saw to that. Likewise, I’m sure he saw to it that at least one member of each jury I’d faced was bent, to assure the conviction went the way he wanted.

That’s why I was here, wasn’t it?

“All rise for the honorable Judge Malcolm McFarley.”

I stood up, rolled my shoulders. In the pit of my stomach, I felt butterflies. Huh, funny. It felt just like when I was out there, on the other side. I looked at the guy standing with the defense. Vincent Taglieri. Didn’t know him personally, didn’t have to. The Gent told me what I needed to know. Taglieri’s lawyer was slick too. Real slick. The prosecution made a tough case, but his guy made every weaseling turn he could make, and hell, even though I knew he was guilty, I found it easy to doubt.

And I fuckin’ hated kid touchers.

That’s one thing about my line of work. Sometimes, you run with people you just can’t stand. By nature, the profession draws undesirables. Jimmie the Gent had that going for him, though. If he could avoid it, he wouldn’t work with the worst of them. But some guys…some guys just had to be stomached.

“You may be seated.”

We sat. The judge wasn’t in Jimmie’s pocket. He was straight and hard as shit. His sentence would be the maximum he could get away with and not risk an appeal. He hated crime. Loved justice. Too bad the American system was too fucked to see it gotten.

“Vincent Taglieri, you have been accused of the abduction and rape of a child of thirteen. The time has come to ask the jury for their verdict. Will the foreman please rise?”

I stood. Yeah, me, the foreman. Fucked up, right?

“Mr. Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?”

“We have, your Honor.”

“Will you please read the verdict?”

I looked over at Vincent. He looked back, an almost imperceptible smirk on his lips. He recognized me. Knew that if Jimmie had gone through the hassle of hiring a real slick lawyer and getting a man on the jury, he was as good as free.

“Guilty, on all charges,” I said, staring Vincent in the eyes. His face drained of color. There was an eruption of sound in the courtroom, followed by the banging gavel.

“Mr. Taglieri is to be taken into custody while I determine his sentence.”

I watched them drag him out of the courtroom. The whole time, he stared back at me. Jimmie was gonna be pissed.

But like I said, I fucking hate kid touchers.

“Rum Punch” – Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge: The Cocktail Is Your Title

This week from the terrible mind of Chuck Wendig comes a challenge to use the name of a randomly generated cocktail as the title of a story.

Using the dice roller at Invisible Castle, I came up with #12: Rum Punch.  Chuck gave us a limit of 1500 words, but the kind of story that came to mind needed a lot less, kind of like the protagonist. So here, weighing in at 690 words, is “Rum Punch.”

I saw him as soon as I walked in, standing behind the bar, polishing the table with an old rag. His knuckles looked slightly bruised, and I knew why. It’s why I’d come. I looked around, briefly. The place was dead. Good. I walked up to the bar.

“What’ll it be?” he asked.

“Rum punch,” I growled.

He looked up, took me in, a look of confusion on his face. Six-two, two-hundred forty pounds of heavy muscle. Long dark hair, goatee. Dark glasses. Motorcycle boots. Leather. That was me, and probably not the kind of guy who’d normally order that kind of drink. Not something a shithole dive like this would be prepared to make any way. He smirked. Thought it was a joke.

“Rum I’ve got,” he said, placing a half-empty bottle of swill on the counter, “The punch, you’ll have to provide yourself.”

Thought he’d never ask.

My fist connected with his nose in a blur of meat and fury. I felt the bones beneath my blow bend, give, break, till his face felt a bit like jelly beneath the pressure of my fist. He reeled back, tumbling against the back counter, arms flailing. I cleared the front one in a leap, grabbing the bottle of swill as I cleared it. I brought that down on his head, hard.

A bottle of rum, even the cheap shit, is tougher than it looks. It’s not like it is in the movies. It doesn’t break when you look at it funny. I clocked him with it. Clocked him again. A third time. When it was clear he wasn’t going to move, I flung it to the side, towards the concrete floor. That’s when it shattered.

I breathed in, deep and heavy, and looked down at my work. He was a mess, that was for sure. I nudged him with my boot. He groaned. Good. Wasn’t dead. I snatched the rag from where he left it on the counter, and wiped his blood from my knuckles. I grabbed another bottle of swill twisted the top, and poured it over his bloody form until he started screaming from the burn, and then I reached down, grabbed him by the shirt, and hauled him up to the counter.

He whimpered, covered his face with his hands.

“Don’t feel too good, does it Tony?” I barked. He winced. I slapped him.

“This is a message, Tony. Jimmy don’t like guys who beat up girls. Especially not girls under his protection.”

His face paled more from the mention of my boss’s name than it did from my beating. Jimmy “The Gent” Alvarez was a hard, low man, but he’d earned his nickname for his civility towards the opposite sex. Since he’d taken over this side of town, decided to make it clear that certain actions would no longer be tolerated.

That’s where I came in.

You see, I’d been out of the game a long time. I’d taken my bruises, given back more. But Jimmy was an old friend, and I knew that, unlike some of the shit stains who took up turf in this town, Jimmy wanted order. Profitable order, sure, but order. And it was clear the cops weren’t ever gonna provide it. So he came to me.

“Pinky Black,” he’d said, strolling into my garage, “Been too long. I’ve got some work for you.”

He made me an offer. I countered. No women, no kids, no one who wasn’t a dirt bag. I wouldn’t be shaking down storeowners or the like. The Gent liked that.

“It’s more profitable to protect than to threaten,” the Gent said.

So here I was. I made a brief search behind the bar, tucked the hand cannon I found there into my waistband. No sense catching a bullet on my way out. I turned back to Tony, who still sat trembling on the bar back.

“This was your warning, Tony. You only get one.”

I turned, walked out. I flipped the sign on the door to “Closed” as I passed. A handful of roughnecks paused as I did.

“He’s closed,” I said. “Ran out of rum.”

 

But one wish…

Oh, give me but one wish and I would ask
For no great wealth, or earthly gotten gain,
Nor servants that would do my every task,
Nor power over sun, or wind, or rain.
For all these things, I truly would replace
To pass the night within my love’s embrace.

For wealth could not my passion’s fire sate;
No price is there to stay my yearning heart.
No princely sum could ever compensate
For time that she and I must spend apart.
And thus, no fortune had, I wish to see;
Instead I wish with her to always be.

And servants to obey my each command
Would idle sit, a wasted wish to be.
For there is not of them I could demand
To set my soul’s desires flying free.
Nor could a harem ever dare compare
To her, my sexy darling lover fair.

The sun may try to slay me with its heat,
Its rays are dim next to our passion’s flame.
The wind and rain may in a tempest beat
Upon us, but will die away in shame.
No force of nature ever could prevail,
Or cause my need for her to ever pale.

In dreams, when I am held within her arms,
And soft caresses dance across my skin,
Away fall troubles, all the worldly harms,
Removing all my woes, my fears, my sin.
And bolts electric leap through out my form
When laying next to her, so soft and warm.

And when she pulls me close, into a kiss,
I am the beast enchanted by the song
Her siren’s tongue, it weaves melodious,
And leaves me tamed, no fear of right or wrong.
Her lips with mine, a lover’s tango dance,
As we give way to simple, sweet romance.

Then soon, we are consumed by our desire,
And frantically, we strip each other bare.
Like panicked fauna fleeing from a fire,
We rush, and at each other’s garments tear,
Till free of those constricting bonds are we
To press together, naked, warm, and free.

And what delicious warmth in her I’ve found
As, hardened from our rush, inside I slip.
My heart beats furious with every sound,
Each sigh of passion that escapes her lips
As rhythmically, we two begin to move,
Our burning lusts together there to soothe.

With perfect thrusting beat our bodies slide,
Enveloped in the passion that we share.
Orgasmic pulses build as we collide,
That wash away our every worldly care.
We feel the pressure building deep within,
With ecstatic release soon to begin.

My hands across her body freely roam,
To touch her milky flesh, each curve to feel,
Each breast a perfect pliant pleasure dome,
And each caress is dreamlike and surreal.
And then her breathing quickens, ‘neath my form,
As tightening, I feel her body storm.

Then thrashing like a ship tossed by the sea,
Orgasms overtake my lover sweet,
And soon I join her in her ecstasy,
We draw together, fully and complete.
Our voices join, and moans, they fill the air,
As I explode within my lover fair.

Exhausted then, together do we sleep,
Still locked together in a tight embrace.
And in our slumber, comforting and deep,
Within our dreams, still passion do we chase,
Till waking, when we start all o’er anew,
To once again such ecstasy pursue.

So give me not of riches, this I plea,
Nor servants that each want may then obey,
Nor power o’er the elements that be,
There’s but one thing I wish for every day:
And that’s to live the waking dream so sweet
Of being next to her, whole and complete.

Lust tapers? Not! (NSFW, AC, Sexual content, be warned)

You must forgive my needs, my dearest love,
For how can I not want you all the time?
Of all the things this poet can think of
To set to meter, fancy up with rhyme,
There is not one that even can compare
To you, my love, my dearest lady fair.

I know, at times, it seems that all I do
Is lust for you, like some demented fiend,
And when I cannot have you, it is true
I tend to get quite grumpy, dour, and mean.
How can I not? For you are like the drug,
And I the fiending, desperate, needing thug.

I long for you with every single ounce
Of passion that I can within me find,
I see you, and I feel that I must pounce
Upon you, feel our bodies intertwined,
But since we can’t, oh, torturous the fire
That burns within me, fueled by this desire!

And soon I find that every waking thought
Is filled with dreams of you in wicked ways,
Till nothing else could penetrate the knot
Of fantasies, and nothing else could faze
My sheer desire, my throbbing, aching need
For you, that you alone could quench, could feed.

I want to feel you, soft, beneath my hands,
I want to squeeze your breasts, to hear your sighs,
I want you to give in to my demands
With giggling lust, and willful spreading thighs,
I want you to want me how I want you,
As evidenced by wet and wanting dew.

Ah, to feel that wetness as I spread
It all across your wanting, waiting flower
With playful teasing from my other head
Till both of us are drunk upon the power
That mutual lust inspires in the heart,
And makes it hurt to ever be apart.

And then, to thrust into you, to combine
Our bodies, to give in to utter bliss,
To see you flush, as red as any wine,
To taste the need upon your flowery lips,
To take you and to love you, hard and fast,
Such are the dreams that build, endure, and last.

And oh, when you are wet like that, I joy
In ways no simple words could dare describe,
For though my carnal nature may annoy
At times, I’d love if you could but imbibe,
And drink full well my lust for you, and take
All that I have to give, our lusts to slake.

I do not think I ever could relay
How powerful my need for you has grown
With every passing hour, every day
That you and I have one another known,
“Lust tapers” – no, least not for you, from I,
But burns like sun and stars within the sky.

 

“Protected” – Another Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction Challenge: 100 Word Stories…

One hundred words to tell a complete story. Beginning, middle, and end. It’s a tough challenge this week from the terrible mind of Chuck Wendig, but I did my best to meet it.  Warning, it’s a bit dark.

Cancer. Fucking pancreatic cancer.

I left when she started crying. I took the letter with me, its portents of doom delivered.

Fuck. FUCK!

I know what I need to do. No chemo. No stretching out the inevitable, until I’m too sick to do anything but wish I hadn’t done anything.

I walk to the closet. Beneath the linens from her mom. I open the gun case.

***

The barrel smokes. Her ex, a bloody mess on the floor.

I’m sorry babe. If I can’t protect you in life, I’ll protect you with death.

One more shot to go.

I love you.

 

My Lust for Her…

A difficult form tonight. The ballade (not to be confused with the ballad) is a form of medieval and Renaissance French poetry

The ballade as a verse form typically consists of three eight-line stanzas, each with a consistent metre and a particular rhyme scheme. The last line in the stanza is a refrain. The stanzas are often followed by a four-line concluding stanza (an envoi) usually addressed to a prince. The rhyme scheme is therefore usually ‘ababbcbC ababbcbC ababbcbC bcbC’, where the capital ‘C’ is a refrain.

The many different rhyming words that are needed (the ‘b’ rhyme needs at least fourteen words) makes the form more difficult for English than for French poets.

 (See wikipedia for the full article on the form.)

My lust for her…

I see her form, and much to my delight
She’s unadorned, no trinkets to display,
No clothes about her wrapped to bar my sight
Nor anything but what she wore the day
She came into the world, but more risqué
For all her shapely curves, her woman’s claim
That fuels this man to passionately say
My lust is hers, and hers alone to tame.

And oh, the wicked smile that takes its flight
Across her face might lesser men dismay,
And cause their weaker passions to afright,
Their doubts and inner demons to obey;
Not I, for my desires are not allayed
By such a thing as doubt or fear or shame,
My flames go stronger, rather than decayed.
My lust is hers, and hers alone to tame.

And thus, my need her own seems to incite
As we embrace and with each other play,
As lovers, twisting, writhing in the night
And long into the breaking of the day.
And yet, unspent, our urges don’t away
But grow in power, glory, and in fame –
And as each other’s passions we essay,
My lust is hers, and hers alone to tame.

Then finally, we crest, we rock, we sway,
To rest and comfort in each other’s frame.
She knows it was the truth when I did say
My lust is hers, and hers alone to tame.

“People F#cking Suck” – from 1,000 Awesome Writing Prompts by Ryan Andrew Kinder… (NSFW, AC, TRIGGER WARNING)

It’s time once more for a prompt from 1,000 Awesome Writing Prompts by Ryan Andrew Kinder…

This week’s prompt is a darker one, indeed.

#814. Write from the perspective of a people trafficker.

 I’m giving myself 20 minutes to write this. Wish me luck.

**Done with 8 seconds to spare. Thank God. I feel more than a little slimy after writing this.**

***WARNING!!! TRIGGER WARNING FOR THE FOLLOWING FICTION!!! DARK SHIT AHEAD!!! THE AUTHOR WAS ATTEMPTING WRITING FROM A DISTASTEFUL PERSPECTIVE BUT DOES NOT ENDORSE THE BELIEFS FOUND HEREIN.***

Don’t say you weren’t warned.

“People F#cking Suck”

Most people would call me a monster. I don’t know, though. I’ve seen monsters. Real ones. Guys that do things that make even the most hardened badass in some Central American backwater prison have nightmares about. Heavy shit, man. Fucking crazy shit. Me? I just traffic people. Move em from point A to point B, pick up a little green (both the spending kind and the smoking kind) and that’s that.

Yeah, yeah, oh my god, don’t I realize they’re people? Yeah, of course the fuck I realize they’re people. That’s why the job pays so well, isn’t it? Thing is, you live long enough in this world, long enough in my world, and you begin to realize something. People fucking suck. They do. All of them. You, me, and the trembling little girls in the back of my van. We all suck.

I won’t lie, I used to have empathy for them. Most of them. But a lot of these girls? They come from places that would make you vomit just to walk a hundred yards from, let alone live in. These girls aren’t random kidnap victims, enslaved brutally like the movies would have you believe. Ok, well, most of them aren’t. Most of the girls I move were sold to us by their own families. Their own fucking families. You get that? Their own mothers or fathers or siblings or aunts or uncles or fucking grandparents brought them to my employer, who paid a ridiculously small amount of money, and then gave them to me. To move.

You know why they sold them? Two things, usually. One, simple greed. People fucking suck, remember? And greed runs the world, buddy. Greed runs the world. You wouldn’t believe it, but the highest call for these little packages are to some of the richest bastards in the wealthiest, most “civilized” countries. They fucking suck too. So much god damned money they sometimes literally wipe their ass with it. They get bored. They can have anything, so the get anything. Including fresh young girls to play with, till they get bored with them too, and then bam, back in the van, and off to the next dude who can’t quite afford first pick. Sick, sucky people.

Reason two? The place they came from was such a god awful hell hole that there literally was nothing better in the world for them than being sold into slavery for sex. Their families believed, no, fuck that, knew that the only chance they had for a better life was one spent on their back in some foreign city, carted around by some fuckwad like me and staying just a step ahead of the authorities. Sure, some girls get scared. Some find ways to get loose, escape, get to the cops wherever the fuck we are. They ruin things for the rest of em. We have to pack up quick then. Get em on the van and move before we all get fucking hung.

Thing is, that one girl, that one stupid selfish girl who had to run off? You know what she did for her “sisters”? She fucked em, royally. See, when we set up someplace new, when there’s no feds or government types sniffing up our asses, we have the time to vet some of the customers. Not all of them, mind you – go back to reason one if you want to know why – but a lot of em. Enough that the girls we set up don’t have it all that bad. Sure, they gotta spread their legs at someone else’s whim, but fuck, how’s that any different from marriage in the fucking warzone they came from? At least with us, they get cleaned up. They see docs. Gotta keep the good healthy, after all.

But when a girl gets loose, we gotta pull stakes. Yank the other girls from whatever situation they are in, some of them pretty cozy. We gotta hit the road, and more often than not, ditch the merchandise at the first chance we get. That can go one of two ways too. Either we sell them to some cheap fucking pimp who’s gonna use em, abuse em, and then ditch them when they are too broken, bruised, or diseased to be of use. Or we kill them. Simple as that. Take them out in a desert and just leave them in a locked van. It’s easier that way.

So that girl, the one that got away? She fucking sucks. The pimps? Fucking suck. The johns? Fucking suck. The families? Fucking suck?

But me? I’m just a guy who drives a van.

And yeah. I fucking suck.