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Sunday, August 17, 2014

Original Fiction: Suicide Smile by Bosley Gravel

The big spender in front of me has a fist full of one dollar bills and a ludicrous grin. If I hadn’t seen
him here every Friday night for the past six months, I’d guess he’d never seen a pair of sweaty tits and a suicide smile. I shine the brass pole with my ass and lean in. He shoves a dollar bill into my cleavage.

“Five to see them,” I say.

He rolls up three and throws them at my feet.

“Shit, cheapskate,” I mutter loud enough so he can hear. I shake my girls and collect the cash. I
do five shows a night. A dancing gig beats cleaning hotel rooms at least.
The guy working the DJ booth switches it over to hardcore German techno, Captain Disco.

They hit the lights and the strobe starts up. The boss expects us to dance fast while they do this. He
thinks it livens things up.

I dance fast and hard, I don’t do it well. Good thing it’s nearly impossible to dance badly under
a strobe light. I’ve got that much going for me tonight.

Five minutes later I’m back at the slow, sweaty, slutty stuff; three hours later I’m in the dressing
room. The rest of the dancers have gone home. It’s just me, all alone. So I pull away false eyelashes
and wipe glitter from around my eyes and chest.

I wonder how many more weeks of this I can put up with, but worse, I think of how many weeks I already have put up with it. I shower, I preen, I pluck some eyebrow away. I count my tips. When I look at the clock, it’s nearly five am. I can’t sleep until it gets light out and most nights I don’t even try. I keep my shirt off. There is something comforting in being naked and not having people gawk.

I look good in the mirror with my suicide smile, blonde hair and perfect tits. Then I hear the gunshots. From the muffled sounds of them, it isn’t a robbery, it isn’t some drunk straggler shooting his gun into the ceiling, it’s not an overzealous cop raiding the dump. I know they’ve found me, and I know these guys are pros. I hear another couple of pops (louder now the silencer has worn down) and I know they’ve offed Little Arnie the weight lifting dwarf bouncer. I know they offed Cock Brown the owner, I know they offed Ray-Ray the full-sized bouncer. Worst of all I know they’re coming for me and I know they aren’t going to off me, not by a long shot.
                                                                         #
I had envisioned this day differently. I thought they’d tie me up and threaten me, but they just stand there. Two of them, as perfect as a stainless steel scalpel and forceps on new white gauze, no ropes in sight. They holster their guns and don’t say anything at first. I give them my suicide smile. I thought my smile would get me a free ride once, but it seems like that might not have worked out. Not since the Senator got presidential aspirations.
“I see London, I see France, I see Kellie in her underpants,” one of the men says. He’s got innocent blue eyes.

“Fuck off, you dirty, two-bit, thug-ass cocksuckers,” I say sweetly.

“What you say is what you are. You’re a naked move star,” the guy replies.

“Apt,” the other says, “apt!”

“You know what we want,” the other guy says. He’s got bag made of black leather. He sees me starring and shakes it a little I can hear it rattle bits of metal.

“What do you want? I really have no idea. The video is gone. I threw it in the river.”

They both look at each other then chuckle.

“Have some decency,” the one with the bag says, “our mutual friend, he’s got a wife and kids, he’s up for a promotion, God and America willing. Give us the video and you can just walk away.”

“I destroyed it.” I’m guessing they’re going to kill me anyway, I could have a thousand copies hidden all over town, hell all over the world. The problem with the average thug these days, he isn’t stupid.

“She’ll talk. Remember that one bitch in Vegas?” the one says. “She talked, and she was tough old whore,” He opens up the bag – I can’t say I am at least a little curious – and removes metal sticks with designs on the end. Branding irons. He tells me as much, and then takes out a bright orange box cutter.

“I grew up in New York city,” he says. “I was a scummy little ghetto kid. Huffing paint and robbing old ladies. I was in a gang since I was ten years old. We used to do this thing, we’d call it a ‘buck-fifty’. We’d cut a fucker’s cheeks, right at the corners of the mouth. Then, a good kick to the balls. He’d scream and the cuts would tear a little. We’d pound him again, and it would tear a little more.”

“Why a ‘buck-fifty’?” the other guy asks. I can see he’s asking for my benefit, these guys have a well-worn routine.

“Because if the fucker was lucky enough to get to the emergency room in time, they’d
have to put one hundred and fifty stitches in his face to close up the gashes.”

“Nice,” he replies and looks at me and winks. “But she don’t have no balls.”

“You noticed that too? Well that’s what the branding irons are for,” he pulls out a little torch from the bag.

“Right, Right. Last chance, Kellie, before he gets started. Between you and me, he really digs this shit – messing up chicks, I mean. I think he’s got deep-seated mommy issues.”

“My shrink says it’s just garden variety misogyny,” he replies.

“There is no video, not any more. I say as he lights up the torch. It hisses with the burning gas. The blue flame makes the metal red, then yellow, then white. The reek of heated steel wafts about the room.

There is knock at the door, and it’s the big spender from earlier today. He looks odd without a fist full of singles and with his lack of hard-on. Instead of cash, he’s got a bouquet of summer flowers. He’s completely shocked at what he sees. I imagine he wandered in, somehow missing the carnage, and with no bouncer to stop him, he made his way back to the dressing room. He tries every night, I’m told. Hell of a time for him to succeed; I hope he’s the hero type –

“Sorry, wrong room,” he says, drops the flowers and turns. Guess not.

“Waste him,” the guy with the torch says. The other guy goes for his gun and our visitor makes a break for it. The thug chases after him.

"Hey, Buttons,” I say, “look at me.” I give him my best suicide smile when he turns. I
keep a tube of pepper spray on my keychain and he gets a face full. The propellant catches the
flame and he drops the torch and then drops the branding irons; the irons burn him on the leg and
ankles as they tumble down. He screams and rubs his eyes, this just makes it worse. The rug catches on fire from the torch. I grab the box cutter off the floor as he wildly flails around the room. I hear the silencer go off again, this time the bang is far louder than before. The big spender is dead; he didn’t have a chance. My guy has his gun out and he starts firing, I jump aside and slash at his arm and neck with the box cutter, I get a vein on his neck and blood starts pulsing out in a neat little arc before he can cover it with his hand. I grab his gun, and drop the box cutter. Upgrade. I stand there wearing nothing but my little pink panties and my suicide smile. I stand among the flowers, the branding irons, the smoke and flames, with the blood of a dying man dripping down my perfect tits.

His partner is back.

“Paul,” he say and looks at me with rage. I hope I’m still smiling, but I can’t tell.

“You cunt,” he says, and levels his gun at me. The phallic tip is blackened. “You’re going to suffer like you’ve never suffered before.” I put my gun to my temple.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll do this and then you’ll never know where the video is or who I might sold it to – your buddy is bleeding out.”
 
“Fuck the video,” he says. “And fuck my buddy, he’s already dead.” He takes the gun’s sight off me, and points it towards his partner. His face is scalded red from the pepper spray. He puts a bullet in his head, the bang makes me jump. He turns the gun back on me, and suddenly I feel naked for the first time in years. I force a perfect suicide smile, then put the gun into my mouth and aim upward . . .
 
Click!
 
He laughs, “Sounds like the gun is empty, Sugar Tits. Too bad, so sad.”
                                                                         #
This big spender in front of me has a fist full of twenty-dollar bills and a ludicrous grin. I return it seven-fold, from ear to ear as a matter of fact. I never saw cash tips like this before. I guess that twisted bastard did me a favor.
“Forty to see them,” I say. It’s hard to talk since that thug took part of my tongue. He throws the bills at my feet and I take out the girls and shake them. The pink scar tissue is raised and puckered. They seem to really like that. Never underestimate a suicide smile and a branded pair of tits.
“Buck fifty for a private dance,” I say. “You wouldn’t believe what the rest of me looks like.”
The big spender is already counting out the money.
THE END
 
 

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