Episode 3: Fucking Mornings.

Click clack, heels smack the floor as she struts out. Struts on. Arse in, tits out, legs flash. Ignores stares. Nothing out of the ordinary here. She’s mostly clean, only a smear here and there.

Comes to a shop. Slams inside. Randall’s. Not owned by a Randall, and never was. A warren of teetering piles of books. Dust ridden, crammed shelves. Cold, musty air smells of coffee. That sweet odour of old books underlies. She sucks it in like cocaine. Pupils stretch to back holes.

Torpedoes her bag at the counter. Pile of invoices explodes in a shower of fluttering white, like dove wings. Margo snorts laughter at Barry’s howl of protest.

‘You’re twenty-five minutes late, Margo,’ he shouts as she struts past, click clack.

Margo flicks the finger, sucks it. Copper salt taste of blood from a smear up the side. Grins. ‘I’ll be back in five, then you can fuck off my bloody desk, Barry.’

‘Well good morning to you too,’ follows her, a whine, as she carries on to the shelves at the back.

Eyes seek and search. Flash mischief. Spot the tight clutch of denim on a taut arse. Jiggles irresistible, delicious, on a ladder way up in the dark recesses. Teeth tug at red-smeared lips. Her hand shoots out. Grabs. Squeezes. There’s a shriek, a clatter. Thumps like hard rain as several books fall to the floor. Hands thrown above her head, she giggles, squeals.

Green eyes peer up under forearm, spy blue staring down, bright with malice. Rolf leans toward her, face out of shadows an ivory dream. Shock of cow licked black hair. Grecian nose. Sex toy sensual. Lollipop good. The kind of man you want to lick, suck, fuck till you bleed. He raises a lip, exposes straight white teeth. Drawls.

‘You look like necrophilia, darling.’

‘Forget to remove the cock from your arse this morning?’ She asks, smile radiant.

Rolf’s grin is sickly, eyes lined with red, cracks in a vase. Sigh of mock woe. ‘Not had a dick, darling. Not in weeks. I’m getting desperate. Had a moth fly out my arse when I took a dump this morning. Do you know any dicks looking for an a-hole?’

‘Only Barry, but I doubt he’d fit.’

Pairs of green and blue look over to Barry. They snigger like naughty children. Rolf purses moulded lips. She wants to bite them.

‘I’ve been known to do wonders with shoe horns,’ he says, innocent. And she’s face first into the ladder. Arms about waist, curled over. Snorting into the rungs. Rolf peers down, gets an eyeful. ‘You’re flashing a few remnants of gore amongst that wedge of tit, Margo pet. Who did you kill this morning?’

Margo sniffles, wipes teary eyes with fingertips. ‘Some fat cunt on the train. Beast. Struck fantasy fuck with a blade on his sorry wide arse when he went fur and fangs on me.’

Rolf strokes her hair, licks a finger to wipe drying blood off her earlobe. ‘Good girl. We going out tonight?’

She shrugs, petulant. ‘Still suffering. You and your fucking pills.’

‘So?’

Huff. Puff of air. Breasts leap up, threaten to leap out. Arms rise, cross beneath, turn crevice to tectonic rift. ‘Maybe. But no pills.’

Rolf rolls his eyes. ‘Can’t promise. Will Moe come?’

She sneers. ‘Not with you, darling. He’s not into candy arse, strictly quim diet.’

Flash of anger, then sulk, a smoke of grey through bright periwinkle blue. ‘But I’ll be wearing my most macho jeans and a five o clock fuck me shadow.’

Margo pulls a sad face. Pats him on the head. ‘That’s my Rolf. Maybe you can wear fake tits and borrow a fanny too? Now fuck off, I’m working.’

Sharp noise of scorn. ‘I’m working, bitch, you’re standing.’

And he turns, gyrates back up to ceiling level. Wiggles that arse extra hard and she’s giggling as she goes. Ears perk as he calls from up in the dusk.

‘Oh and Leek called earlier. Honestly, when does she sleep? Said you need to speak to Minnie, she’s had one of her moments.’

Margo nods. Strides on, click clack, to grab the phone. Over the desk, arse in air, tits squished on oak. Turns pure poison eyes on Barry, mouth open to argue. Taps in a long number, nails click clack, harsh as heels on the plastic.

#

Screwdriver of noise drills into dreams, into ears. Hands rise. Press hard against tormented orifices. The drill of sound won’t stop. She stirs. Flails out. Moans. Throws off the ragged excesses of last night. Squeezes reluctant sleep from sore eyes, fingers sour with nicotine, vomit. Sits just as noise stops. Groans. Eyes pop open like traps.

Saskia’s left the door open again. There’s this strange man staring in at her. Goes to tug duvet over naked tits then thinks what the hell, he’s had an eyeful. No point getting shy. Drags hands through pink and white blonde, it tumbles, sprawls her back. Ticklish. Makes her squirm. Resigns herself to company.

‘Mornin’.’

He nods. ‘Do you always look this dreadful in the morning, dear?’

A chuckle escapes, she can’t catch it. ‘In the morning? Hell yeah.’

‘Ah,’ he says, strolls in. One leg hitches. Turns his walk into a morbid dance of rolling hips.

‘Do you always fake a limp?’ Sarcasm drips. Venom. Because it’s bloody obvious. Stupid in a man of his breeding. He drips breeding. Oozes rich, easy glamour. Perfect Eton flop of hair. Tweed head to toe. Shiny Oxford brogues. She could drown him in piss. Makes her feel redundant in her own room. He stops dead. Stares. Throws back that ridiculously noble head. Howls laughing. He’s a wreck.

She rolls smarting eyes. Pulls herself to bedside cardboard box. Grabs a fag. Sparks up. Blows one long, vicious stream at the ceiling. She can do without this.

‘You, my dear,’ gasped between fresh howls, ‘are an absolute treat!’

Collapses a long body into her only chair. Shabby brown 1940s leather stolen after Granddad’s funeral – her and Margo driving helter-skelter, chair attached wobbly precarious to the roof of an aged Polo, praying Aunt Bev won’t notice till she’s hoofed all the vol-au-vents – damn thing suits him better than her. Unaccountable fury rises. Storm clouds on her horizon.

Pouts. Only has the chair to replace empty milk crates. Hexagonal arse creases just aren’t her style. Besides, milk crates make a perfect home for wigs. Wigs make her happy.

‘Do you know,’ he’s saying in this super jovial voice as she smiles, misty, at her collection of wigs, ‘twenty years I’ve been putting that crap on; it’s become quite the habit. Shall I drop it?’

Shrugs. Tits do a fairly spectacular rumba. They could teach. ‘Gotta have a hobby. May s’well make it hobbling.’

And he’s off. Again. Legs curl dying spider stylee. Shake like a shitting dog. Gives her a headache. Not the noise. Sask is already up. Music full blast. Doubtless on the front room pole, starkers and sweating, legs swung high, tits swung low. She’s singing as she spins, sins. Voice like a dying cat. He can make all the noise he wants over that shit. It’s just his bloody insistence on being so cheerful.

‘I really must insist you tone down the merriment,’ she snarls, tone a childish ape of his jolly chukka drawl, ‘it makes me feel ill.’

He stops. Stares. Eyes fox-like. Just that shade of wily hazel. Makes her unsure of herself. Itchy. Like she needs to put three sweaters and a purdah over naked tits.

‘Of course, my dear… er…?’ He cocks a brow. She’s sickened by the perfection of his clearly un-manicured eye foliage.

‘Minnie,’ she supplies. Caustic. Blows smoke in his direction. Smiles with delight when it makes him blink and cough.

Done coughing, he leans. Offers a hand. Like it’s the bloody Regent. Like she’s not sat naked, tangled in sweaty sheets, stinking of stale vodka, nicotine vomit breath.

‘Aloysius. But you may call me Slim. Utterly charmed to meet you, Minnie.’

‘Oookay. Could I possibly inquire,’ eyes flare wide, fill with innocence edged with teeth, ‘now the formalities are over. What the bloody living arse were you doing at my door, first thing in the morning, staring at my tits, and what are you doing now, in my room, sat in my soddin’ chair, acting like my jolly good buddy?’

He smiles. Eyes crinkle. He’s older than he looks. Endearing. Minnie grinds her smoke out hard in the ashtray. Such temptation to use an arm instead. Hangovers make her sentimental. Beyond gross.

‘I fucked your charming flat mate Cassandra last night,’ he informs her, legs crossed, casual, relaxed, ‘biggest waste of fifty quid’s worth of shots and a condom. I was in the kitchen, inhaling a post crap shag coffee, making plans to whip off quick smart before she came back for seconds, when you staggered back from wherever you’d gone. You peaked my curiosity.’

‘Oh?’

Charming smile. Snake charmer. If she were a snake she’d be charmed. Charming snake. Wonders if his snake is charming. Mental slap then. No snake thoughts. Snake thoughts bad.

‘Well, yes.’ He says, smile still on, it needs to fuck off, she wants to touch it. ‘I don’t often encounter women falling out of 17th century bustiers, singing the Lithuanian national anthem in Italian through a mouthful of vodka, who proceed to vomit on the cat, declare themselves an independent state of atrocity and collapse asleep curled around my feet, snoring, drooling and moaning the name of some chap called Stanley, demanding he nibble on her button again before it switches off.’

She’s stunned speechless. Blank faced. Blind eyed. This mountain of lobsters crawls up her tits. Her neck. Her cheeks. Clack claws with evil abandon. Takes her by surprise. Been a long time since the invasion of the lobsters. She lifts hands. Tries to brush them off but they keep coming. Wave after wave. Red pink flow of hard bodies, sharp claws. He sees them. Eyes shine intrigue, curious fox.

Her fingers curl to fists. Demand connection with his stubborn chin, refined nose. Hunts for words instead. Something brutal. Cruel. Cutting.

‘Yikes. Sorry.’ Nil Point. Fail. Face/palm. Eloquent much.

Shine in those eyes beams comet bright, his body trails after them, soars toward her. Those lips, that face, looms close. Pierces her with foxy eyes.  ‘I’ve never had so much fun with laces. In fact, it has introduced me to a whole new dimension of lacing fun. I will never look at a shoe the same way.’

It takes a moment. Then the penny drops. A stack of pennies. Clatter clatter. Her mind hits the sixty thousand pound jack-pot. All in bloody pennies. A shower, a deluge of copper. Chime. Jingle. Loud as rain on corrugated iron.

Lobsters have to make way quick smart. Coins first, then a literal tide of lava. Rises thick, hissing. Boiling steam. Past rosy nipples, over chin, across cheeks. Engulfs her face. Smell of cooked lobster fades to heat smell. His head dips. Smile widens. Long finger reaches out. Taps the tip of her nose. Scoops off a steaming finger full.

‘You look just like a boiled frankfurter,’ he says, amicable.

And she wants to kill him. Actually kill him. Eviscerate him. Decapitate him. Dangle him by his toes from the light fitting. Pull his intestines out through his belly button. Do a maypole frolic around him as he screams, shudders.

She wants to eat him alive and twitching. Tear up his skin like a cat on a scratch post. Fuck his brains out. Obviously, she’s very confused this morning.

Eyes hold eyes. Hostage. Stockholm Syndrome. Cock Home syndrome. Oh fuck. Awkward silence draws out. In the midst, jarring drill-like shriek of the phone. They howl in unison, hands scramble through the mess on the bed. Heads knock together. He comes out. Triumphant from under her tits, belly. Clutches a baroque pink handset. She sighs relief. Both hands clasp his wrist, thumb presses green. She leans. Ear brushes his fingers.

‘What the bloody fuck do you want?’ Hoarse, irritable. This is not where she wants him. Not now they touch. Skin on skin. Jolt of electricity. Enough to run a city. Buzz buzz, kaboom. Eyes lock. His wily hazel gone hot as her lava. It drains to the duvet. Steams. Dissipates in puffs. Crackle of electric takes over. Smell bright, cordite, in the heat of the room.

‘Concentrate on me,’ comes Margo’s voice, loud enough for him to hear, ‘you can fuck after. What’s this about you having a moment?’

Minnie shrieks. ‘Can’t it wait?’

‘Like hell. We don’t have time.’

‘How the fuck do you know?’ Minnie runs a pointy tongue over Slim’s long fingers. He leans. Nuzzles her neck, nips it. Sparks of heat. Trickles of lightning. He catches one on his tongue. Minnie melts. Pool of melted Minnie. Icecream in sunshine. All over his tongue.

Sharp sound of Margo’s snarl over the phone. ‘Concenfuckingtrate woman! Moment. Now.’

Minnie growls. Moans as Slim’s teeth close on a nipple. ‘Nun. Cowboys. Dust in the desert. Number nine. Got to be the first to catch the Angel. Or the walls come tumbling. Time folds in. Cowboys in the ether. Gunrunners on the Brink. The nun will eat us all.’ She trails off to a purr. Hand flies to his head. Nails curl. Bite into flesh. He bites her other nipple. Sucks hard. And she’s sparking like a firework. Catherine wheel. Ablaze on the bed.

‘Fucking mornings,’ Margo sneers, ‘why don’t I get to fuck in the morning?’

Short clack. Dial tone. Nothing but moans and sparks and naked flesh, flesh exposed under impatient hands. They burn. Sweat. Satin cock hard as rock. Wet fanny. Legs lock around his head. Mouth seeks. She shrieks. Hard, loud and dirty espresso fuck to wake her up. Fucking mornings. Fucking in the morning.

Back arched, top of head touched to bed, Minnie moans. ‘Fuck mornings. Fuck me. Fuck me instead.’

© Ren Warom 2011

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