Hello, friends, welcome to week three of Wasted Words writing prompt. This week (and next week) we are tipping out Hair Brained hats to Women in Horror Month, #WiHM if hashtags get your motor running. This week we are paying homage to a classic female horror author, and next week we’ll be picking someone a little more contemporary.
First up to bat, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. Before the quote, I just want to say, I don’t know why more people don’t refer to her by her full name. Wollstonecraft seems like the most don’t-fuck-with-me middle names since Danger, but I digress. This week’s quote comes to us from none other than Frankenstein and that evil doctor who created him…Wait, I screwed that up. Editor, make me sound smart in post, yeah?
Beware, for I am fearless; and therefore powerful.
This is a bit of a cheat quote because we have an art print of it hanging in my room, but damn that’s a good line. Let’s see where you all take it.
So I've been installing floors in my house the last two days, it's 11pm and I"m exhausted. This is probably a mess this week.
Title: Two Weeks
Comments: Let me have it.
“Don’t fuck with me like this,” Steven leans in close to Dell. He wants Dell to understand he means business.
Dell doesn’t respond.
Typical.
Steven swallows back his anger. He takes a deep breath and reminds himself he only has two weeks left. Ten business days are all that stand between him and all the John Wayne TMC can throw his way. All he needs is to get this damn report from Dell.
“Please, Dell, can I have those reports I sent you?”
Still no response.
Fuck it. Gavin’s office is right around the corner. Steven can take it up with him. Michelle and Luna, who the hell names their kid Luna anyway, pass by as he trudges down the hall.
“Hey, Steve (Steven hates being called Steve),” Luna says. “Counting down the days, huh?”
“Sure.” Steve presses by and into Gavin’s office.
Office is a bit of a stretch. The boss is just lucky enough to have cell walls that are six feet, instead of the usual four. Apparently two feet is what separates the losers, from the losers with bigger paychecks.
“…let’s table that discussion for now,” Gavin is saying into his head set. He gives Steven a “one minute” hand sign and winks.
Douche bag. Steven can’t wait to get out of this circle jerk of punk kids who look down on him because the company software was designed by some goddamn monkey and he has a hard time with it.
“Yeah…uh-huh, sure.” Gavin laughs, the fake gesture is obnoxious. Steven figures he must be talking to a boss. Only VPs and higher tell jokes that funny.
“That’s right,” Gavin says, “We’re building this plane as we’re flying it.”
Gavin hangs up the phone. “Hey, Old Timer, what can I do you for today?” Gavin is already typing away at his keyboard, not even bothering to make eye contact.
“It’s Dell. I sent over those quarterly reports thirty minutes ago and they’re still not ready.”
Gavin laughs, more human this time. “I’m sorry,” he says to Steven. “What was that?”
Red dots of hatred dance across Steven’s vision. Again, he reminds himself, two weeks.
Steven repeats himself to a more attentive Gavin.
“Did you make sure to scan your security badge first?”
“I know how to,” Steven’s voice is hot, his temper ready to blow. He catches himself and tones it down. “I know how to use a printer. The thing just doesn’t work. It might be time the company invested in a new one.”
Gavin’s phone rings. He takes a look down at the caller screen and says, “Can we circle back to this? I’ve got to take this one.”
Steven leaves the office without another word. Stupid entitled brat. Two weeks for Steven, and Royce will be gone by the end of the year. He doesn’t figure an office full of children will stay afloat long after that. They’ll probably be playing beer pong in the break room by Christmas.
Back in the copy room, Steven scans his badge.
Error.
He tries again.
Error.
“Piece of garbage.”
Steven slams a fist down on top of Dell, the printer/fax/copy that’s almost as outdated as Steven himself. Shifting gears, Steven types his log in information into Dell’s display.
Success.
He tabs over to the printing queue and finds 7 waiting attempts to print his reports. Without a moment of hesitation, he punches print all.
Dell whirs to life. A wave of relief washes over Steven. Finally.
Half a page spits out the side of the printer before stopping.
“Paper Jam,” the screen reads.
Steven bites back a scream.
As if in answer to his prayers, a kid walks in wearing a jumpsuit with a badge that says, “Nerd Brigade.” The Nerd sets down a bag of tools on a counter.
“Hey, just the guy I was hoping to see,” Steven says.
“Oh yeah?”
“Definitely. I’m glad someone is finally getting around to fixing this thing.”
“Oh,” the kid looks down at his hands. “Actually, I’m just here to install a new printer in…” he checks a work order in his hand. “Gavin’s office? I’m just not sure where that is.”
Steven laughs. It’s the only emotion he can manage. “Sure, kid. Take a right out of here, walk past the vending machines, and Gavin’s office is on the left.”
“Thanks.” The kid grabs his bag and follows Steven’s directions toward the men’s bathroom. As he walks past, a small object falls out of his bag.
“He—” Steven pauses when he sees the shiny phillips head screwdriver laying on the linoleum floor. He picks up the tool and turns to Dell. Ripping out the jammed paper, he tells the machine, “Beware, I am fearless; and therefore powerful.” He punches the ‘try again’ button on the screen, holding the tip of
the screwdriver close to the printer’s display screen.
Seven copies of the quarterly reports print flawlessly.
I'm going to try this next time I'm at odds with the printer at work...
This story gave me so much anxiety haha. These two lines in particular left me gutted. Nicely done!
-Apparently two feet is what separates the losers, from the losers with bigger paychecks.
-Steven figures he must be talking to a boss. Only VPs and higher tell jokes that funny.
This week apparently poked at a couple characters of mine. (ugh copy paste on mobile kills formatting.) —
/Beware, for I am fearless; and therefore powerful./
Zach felt more like he was pulling himself out from underwater than from sleep as he woke. Groggy. Heavy. “What?” he murmured.
/Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you./ Kade said quietly. /I was just.../
“Going through my old memories again. That’s Frankenstein right? One of my brother’s old horror vids, I’ll bet, since I never actually read it.”
/It’s very boring when you’re asleep./
“Mm.” Zach sat up and rubbed their eyes. “I’m sorry. There’s no easy way around that I guess. I’m up now but next time, just try to keep it down while you’re poking around. We need the rest.”
/What happened to your brother?/
“What?”
/Why does he not persist? You did not have his memories to relocate to a new form. Why? Your memories of this are in a place not left open to me./
“That’s generally a good sign that I don’t want to talk about it.”
/But why?/
“You’ll find when humans say they don’t want to talk about something they expect that’s the end of that conversation.”
/I could just look anyway./
Zach sighed. “We’ve been getting along well, don’t ruin it over this.”
/This is a source of trauma for you./
Zach laughed at that. “You think?”
/You should talk about it with someone. Why not me?/
“We are not at the stage in our relationship where I am going to use the Goddamn AI that hijacked my existence as a therapist. Fucking drop it, and let’s just get on with the day, alright?”
/Fine. This conversation will come up again./
“I’m sure it will, but not today.”
Damn, that was quick. "We are not at the stage in our relationship where I am going to use the Goddamn AI that hijacked my existence as a therapist." I really liked this line. Cool story, I want to hear more from this world.
So cool. Any story that works in this kind of stuff freaks me the fuck out.
"Your memories of this are in a place not left open to me." >> Creepy and majorly intrusive. Great job!
I resigned my place as Chairman at the Commission meetings. Now I can veto whatever the narcissists do there.
I fired Premier Trucking after they opposed my election and hired Midwestern when they promised me campaign donations and a book deal. My lawsuit will bankrupt that widow and her family. She will be turned away from the poorhouse.
When Ms Portly suggested she may oppose a tax on pig waste, I informed her she was resigning for health issues.
When Shotgun Gazette printed propaganda against my instructions, my intelligent followers cancelled their subscriptions and Northwestern cancelled their advertisements.
When TBI started an investigation here, I had every agent fired along with the one that started it in Nashville.
Do not cross me. I am heir to my family's millions. I am your landlord. I make 6 figures each from three different places, along with the profits from the farms I am having subdivided.
Do not speak ill of me. My agents are everywhere and hear every word spoken in the county. I will destroy you, if you fail to sing my praises, or if you are found with a copy of the Shotgun Gazette.
There are no idiots stupid enough to oppose my rule. Buy my book to understand my brilliance.
Beware, I am powerful, hence fearless.
https://www.facebook.com/Brent-Clinton-107235854054379/ Mayor of Shotgun County
Often inspired by the antics of a particular politician, Brent is an amateur at politics, and the stereotype of their character. He sees no flaws in his ways or words, thinking he as immune from voter backlash as those on the national stage.
Indeed, he reversed the phrase to apply a "great campaign slogan" in the manner that suits him best. The rules don't apply to him anyway.
"Did ya hear the mayor's campaign speech?" Ole Zeb had asked as we travelled from town.
Now Zeb and I ain't close or nuthin' but he knows ah have no love fer those crooks called politicians. He oughta know ah ain' agonna go ta no crook's speakin' at me. 'Sides, it 'pears he were there, an' shoulda seen ah weren't.
"Brent was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but he has done got too big fer his britches. What d'he say now?"
"Oh, he was actually bragging about bankrupting the Premier trucking widow and Shotgun Gazette, said he would destroy any that spoke ill of him. Saw more than one of the Commissioners sweating at the speech. Ole Sheriff Robert L Shirley was just a shaking his head as he took notes."
"Well, the Sheriff don' care fer lawbreakers atall, an' after what he saw in tha war, ah doubt some politician skeers him none at all. Ah steer clear of 'im when ah can, but he ain' agonna back down from uh fight. Ain'cha worried ah'll tell da mayor ya weren't impressed?"
"Well, no, I know you rather curl up in a den of coyotes, suckling on a teet, while poking a copperhead in the eye than sit down for supper with any politician, much less Brent Clinton. There ain't a critter in the county what thinks you would pee on him if he were on fire."
"Well, ah reckon' that's true, but shouldn't ah be considerin' if'n ya ain' jus' baitin' me ta say somethin' ill of him? Ya were at 'is rally after all."
"The way I figure it, if there is one person Brent won't tangle with, it is you, or Granny Grumps. Ain't neither one of you ever couched your words and ain't nobody thinks y'all start now."
"Well, no ah ain't skeered of 'em. Ain' no need ta be. He puts 'is pants on one leg ata tahm jus' lahk us all."
"That reminds me of the line in the movie I took the Mrs to last week, down at the Moonlight Drive-In, 'Beware, for I am fearless; and therefore powerful.' "
"Soun's 'bout right fer da Sheriff, bu' ah doubt he'd ever claim ta be powerful."
"No, I was talking about you."
"Me? Nah, ah ain' got no power atall. Ah can't even make mah dawg Carl do a thing. Ah jus' ain't skeered o' no rich kid what can't control 'is own mouth. Ah reckon he'll strut down the wrong holler one day and wind up feedin' the coyotes."
https://www.facebook.com/backwoodsbanter/
That does sound like one familiar politician. Good to know there's a few in Shotgun County who ain't skeered of some big talk.
@Alexander Nader he says what he sees others act.
And he never knew that money doesn't impress folks here.
Title: Sarah
Comments: Always welcome, even if I forget to check back and read them.
The relay station was designated HRS-05274, but he called her Sarah. He would talk to her as he crabbed through maintenance shafts and crawl spaces. Very often she would reply.
Each remote tachyon relay station in the network was staffed by a single engineer assigned to supervise automated maintenance. Every cycle a transport would dock at the station to deliver supplies. A psychiatrist was also delivered to evaluate the maintenance engineer. Some people thrived in the solitude of deep space, while others flayed themselves and wrote poetry with their blood and feces on the walls. It was difficult to anticipate which way an engineer would go.
One of his predecessors had scratched the words “Beware, for I am fearless; and therefore powerful” into the glass of a viewport before slowly and methodically immolating herself with a fusion torch. They never were able to completely buff the words out of the glass, or remove the bits of her that had fused with the floor.
“Do you have disturbing thoughts?” the psychiatrist asked.
“I just imagined you naked.” He replied. “That was disturbing.”
She made a note on her tablet. “Do you ever hear voices?” she said.
“Only my own.”
“The audio logs record you talking to someone...” she said, making more notes. “Sarah, I believe you call her.”
“It passes the time.”
“Who is Sarah?”
“This station. The machinery. It’s an engineer thing.”
“Why do you call her ‘Sarah’?”
He called her Sarah because that’s what she told him her name was. “Dunno,” he said. “Seemed to fit better than Bethany or Delores.”
“Your conversations are quite...intimate at times. Do you believe Sarah is real?”
“Do you mean do I think she’s a figment of my imagination or not?”
“Being alone so long can blur the line between reality and imagination,” she added. “Do you think I am a figment of your imagination?”
“I hope not.” He shrugged. “Figments of my imagination are usually hotter than you.”
“Is Sarah ‘hot’?” The psychiatrist’s face was as blank as an empty canvas.
In an awkward all knees and elbows geek girl way, yes, smoking hot, he thought. “She’s a relay station,” he said.
“How long have you been working at this station?”
“Five cycles. You know that.”
“When was your last leave?”
“Two cycles,” he said. “I have another one coming up next cycle. You know that too.”
“How do you intend on spending it?”
“I’m getting a penthouse suite for a week and three hookers—not synthetics mind you—and a few bottles of whiskey. The real stuff.”
“That will be expensive.”
“I’ll have three cycles of pay due. What else should I spend my money on? Wise investments? Feeding the poor?”
More scribblings. “Do you take these evaluations seriously?” she asked.
“Not really,” he said. “Do you?”
“The Company cares about its employees,” she said.
“The Company cares that the relay stations stay online and their engineers aren’t found hanging in shafts strangled by their own entrails.”
She made more notes.
He shifted in his chair. “Are we done here?”
“You‘re a pig and an asshole, but you’re not insane,” is what she wanted to say. What she said was, “Yes, we’re done.”
“Good.” He stood to leave, paused, and looked her up and down. “You’d be prettier if you smiled.”
Her face could have been carved from granite. She made another note before shoving her tablet into a bag. “Good day, Mr. Thomas,” she said. “I’ll see you again next cycle.”
“Stuck up bitch,” he muttered as he walked away, trailing his hand along the cool metal of the passageway.
He watched the transport undock and pull away from the station, slowly becoming just another point of light in the blackness of deep space.
“Three hookers?” said a voice behind him.
“Why not?” he replied.
“You could make a girl jealous.”
“Nothing to be jealous about,” he said, and turned from the viewport. “You’re my girl.”
The woman standing behind him wasn’t what he’d call a knockout in the traditional sense, but she had a pretty face and enough of the right assets in enough of the right places. She crossed her arms and frowned, holding up one finger.
“Fine,” he said. “One hooker. Happy?”
She smiled. It was a crooked smile, all wrinkled nose and pursed lips. He loved that smile.
“Ball-breaker,” he said without conviction.
She shrugged and walked away down an unlit corridor. His eyes followed her. It wasn’t an unpleasant view, even in her frumpy engineer’s uniform. A bit skinny for his tastes, perhaps, but ass is ass, especially in deep space.
Sarah had begun speaking to him near the end of his first cycle on the station. He wondered if he was heading down the path that led to profane graffiti with bloody fluids, but decided not to mention it to the psychiatrist at the time. It was a good gig with plenty of free time. It paid very, very well. No reason to mess that up.
He eventually rationalized that Sarah was not a symptom of insanity, but a manifestation of the heart and soul of the station. A ghost in the machine. He was never alone. He had Sarah, and she had him.
It was during his second cycle that she started appearing to him. That was harder to rationalize.
He knew he wasn’t hallucinating because if he had it would all be much more...exotic. Sarah was about as far from exotic as a girl could be. Still, after all these cycles alone with her she had grown on him; wrinkled nose smile and all, and he stopped questioning it. He might even say he loved her.
What really drove him insane was that he couldn’t touch her. Three cycles between leaves was a damn long time to be alone with nothing but a box of tissues and a VR headset.
That night as they sat below the observation dome, talking about nothing in particular, Sarah awkwardly unzipped her uniform and pulled down her top. The dusting of freckles across her breasts was like the dusting of stars above the dome. She knelt in front of him. He noticed she was shivering.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I want to watch you,” she said.
“Watch me?”
“I want to watch you do what you do with those goofy VR googles on,” she said. “But I want you to look at me while you’re doing it.”
He wasn’t the blushing sort. He blushed anyway. “You’ve been watching me?” He coughed. “This is awkward.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” she said. Her voice softened. “Imagine you are making love to me.”
“I always do, Sarah.” He traced his finger around the shimmering outline of her ethereal face. “God, I wish I could touch you.”
“So do I.”
When he was finished she sat beside him and hugged her knees. “One,” her voice whispered to him under the stars. “And she has to look like me.”
Title: We'd Really Like Your Feedback
Comments: Yes, please.
“Welcome to Better Burger, where everything is better. May I take your order?”
Jackson punched in the order, listened to the man drone on and on about something. The wife mhmm’d him the whole time. They ignored the kids wailing in the backseat. They were slow to pull up. He pulled his headset off. Let it hang around his neck. He snuck a glance around the kitchen. Only Lloyd and Estelle, everyone else was on break. And they were deep in the trenches, Lloyd on fries, Estelle on the register up front.
He cinched the cord, felt his airway closing off. He slowly raised his hand above his head, searching for the perfect spot, the right angle. Found it. His whole body started to twitch and tingle. He shoved his free hand into his pants. Pinwheels burst in his vision. He stifled a gasp, buried a moan. Just when he was about to cum, right when he was on the verge, the driver alert pinged again through the headset.
He let the cord go slack, and his body followed.
He wiped the sweat from his face onto his shirt front, caught a glimpse of his reflection in the back of the cooler door. Smiley faced sweat stain stamped on his chest, grease halo shining above it. He’d achieved sainthood finally, it seemed. I made it, ma. Look at me now, patron saint of Better Burger and auto-erotic asphyxiation.
“Hey, wake up! Didn’t you hear me?”
“What’s that sir? Sorry, headset trouble.”
“I’d say so, you’re not wearing it, moron.”
Jackson might have smiled.
“Oh, that’s funny. This is funny.”
“No sir.”
“This is funny, Marlene. Why aren’t you laughing?”
Marlene. Hello, Marlene.
“Please don’t yell, Greg.”
Hello, Greg.
“I’m not yelling, Marlene. You want to see yelling?”
“Not in front of the kids, Greg, please.”
“No, they need to see this. See, this is why you're going to college, kids. Listen here, Marvin, is it?”
Jackson glanced down. Yes, his nametag said Marvin.
“Wake up, Marvin. I want to speak to your manager.”
“I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have a manager on duty after ten. But I can provide you with a complaint form to fill out.”
“A complaint form? Do you think I have time for that? Do you know who I am? Just give me the food.”
But we’d really like your feedback, Greg.
“Yes, sir. It’ll be $23.75”
“$23.75? The fuck kind of value meal is that? I'm not paying a goddamn cent. This has been the worst service I’ve ever gotten. Did they even train you? Are you capable of answering me, or are you just going to sit there with that stupid look on your face?”
“Sorry, sir. I’m not allowed to provide a discount, but you can fill out a complaint form.”
“Oh, for fucks sake. Give me the damn form already, if it will shut you up. Just give me the form and my food, you snot nosed little piece of shit…”
“Stop it Greg, you’re scaring him. You’re scaring the kids.”
“He better be scared. Listen here, Marvin. It’s a cruel world. You’ll thank me one day for this.”
__
They mopped the floors, locked up. The Better Burger sign slowly died out, the neon glow fading.
“You need a ride, Jackson?”
“No thanks, I’m going to walk.”
He watched Estelle’s headlights disappear out of view then put on a fresh set of plastic gloves and a new hairnet. He took out the complaint form from his back pocket, unfolded it.
Greg Peterson. 1215 Cedar Lane.
Thank you, Greg.
He started walking.
Beware, for I am fearless; and therefore powerful.
Ha! This is great, man. The asphyxiating headset definitely caught me off guard and I had no idea where this one was going until the end. Great job this week
Title: The Ultimate Taste
Comments: Sure! This is real quick and dirty. Better extremely late than never?
OK, so we aren’t technically secret superheroes -- but we sort of are. You could pass by us on the street and you’d never know our undercover powers.
I wouldn’t say that we’re saving the world -- but we sort of are. We’re not stopping a meteor from crashing into the earth or reprogramming rogue nuclear missiles or stopping a volcanic eruption or overthrowing a ruthless dictator --- where was I going with this?
Oh, yeah. We’re saving the world, but not like that.
We are the secret taste testers. The taste innovators. Since the dawn of time we have put things in our mouths and said, “Why not?” We’ve taken on this burden for the greater good -- and at great risk to ourselves.
Not only do we push the boundaries of flavor, but we release the best ideas into the world through suggestion … and no one will even know where the food combinations originated.
Our forebears in this secret society invented the peanut butter & pickle sandwich. (If your great grandpa claims to have invented this combo, he’s a liar.) Just know that if you’ve ever eaten pickles with whiskey, chocolate covered edamame, or barbecue flavored ice cream you’ve seen our work.
What makes us different than, say, any average person who in a crushingly drunken state mistakenly makes pancakes out of toothpaste?
Not much, honestly, except that we’re mostly sober and this is a science that we’ve worked very hard on and I’m sort of offended by this rhetorical question now.
But I digress.
We are not afraid to ask questions like, Will it burrito? Why not slap this between two slices of bread with peanut butter? What if we covered this in chocolate? Is there anything you can’t put hot sauce on? Is there anyone who will stop us from making this an ice cream flavor? Will we die if we combine these two foods together? Beware, for we are fearless; and therefore powerful. We will not stop until we have tried every taste combination -- and only brought to you the best in flavors the world has to offer.
So the next time you see sriracha caramel or buffalo chicken flavored cupcakes, know that we were there. You’ll never know the dangers we saved you from (RIP, the 1997 Taste Testers who gave it their all) because we do this thankless job not for the glory but for the ultimate taste.
So the next time you sigh when the only available ice cream flavor is vanilla, know that someone died to bring you the vanilla flavor in only its best forms. And thank your unseen taste testers.
So glad you made it this week . This was a crazy fun read. And to answer the question, no, there is nothing you can't put hot sauce on. The being offended by a Rhetorical question line got me good.
Better late than never, eh?
Title: Two Bullets
Comments: Sure
Beware, for I am fearless; and therefore powerful.
Marisa read the inscription on the inside of the ring before slipping it back onto the ring finger of her right hand. She didn’t know where the saying came from, but her father always said that she was too bold for her own good, and she liked that memory of him. It was comforting.
“Do you think they’ll come back for us?”
Marisa shrugged.
“I don’t think it matters. If they do, they’re probably going to kill us. If they don’t, we’ll die in here.”
Eli groaned and rolled over. The mat he laid on was stained with dried blood, though it was tough to figure out how much came from the wound in his side or how stained it was before they’d been left here.
“I wish I had known that dating you could be this dangerous.”
Marisa had been waiting with dread for this to come up.
“Look, Eli, I didn’t know that this could happen. I swear, I’ve never been kidnapped before.”
He faced away from her and didn’t make any attempt to look at her as he spoke.
“I’m so glad I could be the one to pop that cherry.” He coughed, hard, and it sounded bad. Gurgley. Not how a cough should sound.
Marisa paced the small room, thinking of a plan. Other than the mat, there was nothing here. Maybe she could roll up the mat and use it as a weapon?
She dismissed that idea. It would be more useful to just wet a towel and whip them with it.
If they even came back. The two of them had been in this room for at least six or eight hours. Marisa’s lips were getting dry and cracked, and the room had smelled like piss since Eli has gone in his pants a few hours back. He hadn’t stopped moaning in pain since the wiry guy stabbed him, so she tried to be charitable, but the longer she was stuck in this room with him, the more patience she lost.
The door rattled and Marisa jumped.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god.” Eli’s moans became this plaintive, repeated mumble as the door opened. Marisa recognized them as the same three who snatched Eli and her from the boardwalk. The biggest one held a revolver, a big one with a long barrel and a polished body that seemed to glow in the dim light. The wiry one was still holding the knife he stabbed Eli with earlier. The one with the mustache, he seemed to be the leader of the group, and it was he who spoke up.
“Family must not be too interested in getting you back.”
Eli groaned. Marisa sighed.
“Not giving you the money you want for my safe return, right?”
Mr. In-Charge shook his head.
“Sorry, little girl. Looks like you’re gonna go the way of yer pops.”
Blood rushed into her cheeks and her fists clenched, but Marisa held her tongue.
“So you’re going to shoot us?”
Mr. In-Charge raised an eyebrow. Wiry slipped the knife through his fingers absently. Revolver stared at Marisa, his gaze unblinking.
“We? No. That stupid, fat slob behind me is gonna shoot you. I’m just gonna watch.” Wiry grinned at this. Revolver didn’t move. “Well, Fatso, go do her and the whiny kid already.” Revolver shook his head, like he had forgotten where he was or what he was doing.
He looked at Marisa like he was seeing her for the first time.
“Jesus, Julio, she’s just a fuckin’ teenager.”
“She is, but you know what else she is? A liability. A worthless liability.” Julio spit on the floor. “So do it already.”
“Yeah,” Wiry added. “This shit’s better than Netflix.”
Fatso raised the gun and pointed it at Marisa’s forehead.
Beware, for I am fearless; and therefore powerful. The inscription on the inside band of that ring ran through Marisa’s mind, over and over, in her Daddy’s voice. She was as good as dead.
She had nothing to lose.
“Fatso, you wanna suck these guys’ dicks for the rest of your life, or do you want something better?”
Fatso blinked slowly. He probably did everything slowly.
“Aww, don’t listen to her,” Julio said. “She’s all talk. Family couldn’t even come up with the scratch to save her miserable life. Just do it and let’s get outta here.”
Marisa’s gaze didn’t leave Fatso’s.
“They didn’t give you the money because they don’t have it. I have it. Daddy left me everything.” Eli groaned from the floor, and Marisa wished he would just shut up or die already. “Two shots, Fatso. One for me, and one for Eli. Or one for each of your friends, and you come work for me. I obviously need a bodyguard. And that’s my offer. Suck dicks, or help me run my dad’s old game.”
Marisa reached up, slowly wrapped her fingers around the barrel of the gun, closed her eyes, and steered it down into her open mouth. Then she waited.
She didn’t open them again until she heard the second shot.