PART TEN
An orange haze hung over Los Angeles. The 6:00 p.m. news reported a grisly drive-by shooting that took two lives and seriously injured a two year old Pekinese named Pooch. There had been a dozen road-rage incidents on the freeways, and numerous domestics with one in particular that involved a kitchen knife and a pair of cheating testicles. Angelenos can't get enough of each other's jive-ass shit. Get well cards for Pooch can be sent in care of the TV station.
The unemployed construction worker, in the apartment above Kitty Lunt, had his music cranked to the max. Some Bro rappin about how his woman was gonna get a beatin if she didn't come home with some green. Someone else in the building was pounding on a wall and yelling for him to turn the fucking music the fuck down, so he could get some fucking sleep.
"Lots of money," the tall one said to his partner, as they stood in Kitty Lunt's living room, oblivious to the noise. He used a greasy cotton handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his face. "Lots of money is what you'll need to survive the Apocalypse."
"Wrong," the short one said. "These days, money is just a lot of ones and zeros in computers. That'll all get wiped out. What you need is street smarts when the big shit hits the fan. The animals are going to come out and take over."
"You guys done here?" Kitty asked the two LAPD uniforms, giving them as much attitude as she could. They looked at her as if they'd just noticed her for the first time.
"We're done," the tall one said running his eyes up her legs and stopping at her breasts. He handed her a copy of the report. "Hope you got insurance."
"I'd put in an alarm system," the short one said. "Make sure it's got a good battery backup incase the power goes out."
"Thanks guys, it makes me feel safe knowing you're out there!"
"The thin blue line," the tall one said smirking.
"Yea, real thin!" Kitty said.
The short one pulled her apartment door closed behind them as they left, but it sprung open again from the pry bar damage. Kitty went over and kicked it.
On the stairs going down she heard the tall cop. "What do you think is best to keep, dry food or canned?"
She kicked the door again and felt the tears start. She looked around at the small living room. There hadn't been much to steal. A bit of cash, booze, clothes for their bitches. No drugs, so they'd trashed the place. A friend had once advised her to leave a little bag of blow out for the bad guys or the cleaning lady. She should have taken the advice.
They used knives to slash the sofa. Its fuzzy white guts were strewn all over the room. They'd spray-painted tags on the walls like dogs pissing on a hydrant. They'd written 'fuk you' and 'your muther', using spelling mistakes they probably first made in grade four when they dropped out.
Time to get out of LA for a while she thought. Things are going stale. Sure there was always some kind of work for her. Movie extra, commercials, waiting tables. The old clichés. She'd even slept with a producer, which got her a speaking part in a flick with a couple of big names who kept to themselves in their air conditioned trailers while the little guys smoked and drank really bad coffee in a rented tent. For a while she thought she might be in love with the producer.
A week ago he'd told her it was over, just after she'd given him a blowjob, on the leather couch in his office. He said his wife had hired a private investigator and he couldn't afford to get caught. He looked at his reflection in the office window, and ran his fingers through his full head of dark hair, the night lights from LA like campfire sparks across the dry hills. "It's her money," he said. "I have to keep her happy."
Kitty thought he was full of shit. She sent the wife a couple of Polaroids she'd taken of him asleep in a Cancun hotel room. One was a close up so the wife could see the lipstick on his cock.
Kitty looked around her devastated apartment. The scumbags had screwed in her bed and she knew she'd never be able to sleep there again. Upstairs she heard someone pounding on her neighbour's door, the sound of breaking glass, police sirens in the distance. She put her face in her hands and cried.
An orange haze hung over Los Angeles. The 6:00 p.m. news reported a grisly drive-by shooting that took two lives and seriously injured a two year old Pekinese named Pooch. There had been a dozen road-rage incidents on the freeways, and numerous domestics with one in particular that involved a kitchen knife and a pair of cheating testicles. Angelenos can't get enough of each other's jive-ass shit. Get well cards for Pooch can be sent in care of the TV station.
The unemployed construction worker, in the apartment above Kitty Lunt, had his music cranked to the max. Some Bro rappin about how his woman was gonna get a beatin if she didn't come home with some green. Someone else in the building was pounding on a wall and yelling for him to turn the fucking music the fuck down, so he could get some fucking sleep.
"Lots of money," the tall one said to his partner, as they stood in Kitty Lunt's living room, oblivious to the noise. He used a greasy cotton handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his face. "Lots of money is what you'll need to survive the Apocalypse."
"Wrong," the short one said. "These days, money is just a lot of ones and zeros in computers. That'll all get wiped out. What you need is street smarts when the big shit hits the fan. The animals are going to come out and take over."
"You guys done here?" Kitty asked the two LAPD uniforms, giving them as much attitude as she could. They looked at her as if they'd just noticed her for the first time.
"We're done," the tall one said running his eyes up her legs and stopping at her breasts. He handed her a copy of the report. "Hope you got insurance."
"I'd put in an alarm system," the short one said. "Make sure it's got a good battery backup incase the power goes out."
"Thanks guys, it makes me feel safe knowing you're out there!"
"The thin blue line," the tall one said smirking.
"Yea, real thin!" Kitty said.
The short one pulled her apartment door closed behind them as they left, but it sprung open again from the pry bar damage. Kitty went over and kicked it.
On the stairs going down she heard the tall cop. "What do you think is best to keep, dry food or canned?"
She kicked the door again and felt the tears start. She looked around at the small living room. There hadn't been much to steal. A bit of cash, booze, clothes for their bitches. No drugs, so they'd trashed the place. A friend had once advised her to leave a little bag of blow out for the bad guys or the cleaning lady. She should have taken the advice.
They used knives to slash the sofa. Its fuzzy white guts were strewn all over the room. They'd spray-painted tags on the walls like dogs pissing on a hydrant. They'd written 'fuk you' and 'your muther', using spelling mistakes they probably first made in grade four when they dropped out.
Time to get out of LA for a while she thought. Things are going stale. Sure there was always some kind of work for her. Movie extra, commercials, waiting tables. The old clichés. She'd even slept with a producer, which got her a speaking part in a flick with a couple of big names who kept to themselves in their air conditioned trailers while the little guys smoked and drank really bad coffee in a rented tent. For a while she thought she might be in love with the producer.
A week ago he'd told her it was over, just after she'd given him a blowjob, on the leather couch in his office. He said his wife had hired a private investigator and he couldn't afford to get caught. He looked at his reflection in the office window, and ran his fingers through his full head of dark hair, the night lights from LA like campfire sparks across the dry hills. "It's her money," he said. "I have to keep her happy."
Kitty thought he was full of shit. She sent the wife a couple of Polaroids she'd taken of him asleep in a Cancun hotel room. One was a close up so the wife could see the lipstick on his cock.
Kitty looked around her devastated apartment. The scumbags had screwed in her bed and she knew she'd never be able to sleep there again. Upstairs she heard someone pounding on her neighbour's door, the sound of breaking glass, police sirens in the distance. She put her face in her hands and cried.
posted by Paul at
3:17 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home