Disclaimer:
these girls are mine, they may look familiar and act familiar but they are all
mine. Cause we know the world is chock full o’ fine looking chicks like these,
right?
Language: Plenty of it and it’s not all good.
Sex: Of course there is sex, the hot and nasty kind. Depictions of consenting
adults participating in same sex unions and bdsm scenarios, so if you are
vanilla, be warned that this is dark chocolate, both bitter and sweet. If it
ain’t your thang, then do not pass go. Do not collect $200, just hit the road
now!
Violence:
Oh yeah, there is!
Ink flowed into flesh,
The black lines birthing a new work of art, living and
breathing: this canvas, the flesh of man.
Torrid Duncan loved her work. She loved inking; it made her
feel in touch with something timeless, lasting, and primal. All throughout human
history we have painted our bodies and adorned them with bone, glass, wood and
steel. Torrid loved being a part of the modern primitive-movement. In fact,
reveled in it.
When Torrid and Elektra opened their shop, it was just a
shack on the side of the highway outside of a small Texas town north of Houston.
But now they were located in the heart of the catchall community of The
Montrose; Houston’s progressive and artistic hood.
The outline was nearly done, and soon she would begin the
shading and filling. This design, an ancient Scythian tribal design, an animorph
with antlers and swirling tribal decoration.
Torrid loved the Scythian motifs and had adorned herself
with three of them. She noticed the popularity grew as the Eastern block
immigrants who entered the American pop culture and sub cultures began to
frequent the tattoo scene.
“There,” she said as she wiped down the ink on her
customer’s arm, “The outline is in. I’m gonna grab a soda, then start the
fill. You want something?”
“No, I am good,” replied Jarslov Korzenevski in broken
English.
Torrid went to the fridge and grabbed a diet Pepsi. She
closed the door and smiled as she saw the snapshot magnet of her and her best
friend Elektra. She laughed to herself as she walked back into the studio to
continue her session with Jarslov.
“Okay, let’s paint it black, shall we?” asked Torrid
resettling into her seat.
“Da! I like ink!” said the strapping Russian man. He
was in his late 30’s, an immigrant who came to the US from Russia to escape
the poverty and hard times of his homeland. He came in search of his piece of
the American Pie and discovered rock n roll, strippers, dope and tattoos. He
always paid cash. That’s all Torrid gave a shit about.
“You know, you should have motorcycle inside.” Jarslov
said breaking the silence that had settled in after the humming of the needle
began.
“What? Why?” replied Torrid without looking up from her
work.
“For tough guys, to sit when they get tattooed!”
Torrid looked up as if to question, Are you for real?
But she thought it would be a good hook for all the macho types. The corners of
her mouth drew into a slight smile.
“Maybe so. I’ll talk to Elektra about it.”
Six hours later, Elektra was closing up
the shop and Torrid was cleaning her machines. The grinding beat of heavy metal
music filled the shop, and Elektra pulled out a bottle of whiskey from the
cabinet and two shot glasses.
“Well chica, its Friday night! Time for happy hour!”
she said as she poured two shots.
“No shit, hook me up!” Torrid answered back, as she put
aside her machine and walked over to the counter.
“And just to see how much of a real Amazon you are,
let’s make it interesting,” said Torrid as she reached for her Zippo. “Are
you a chicken shit?”
“Hell no! Light it up Sista!” Shouted Elektra.
Torrid touched her Zippo’s flame to the two shot glasses
setting the alcohol aflame. She sat her lighter on the counter and curled her
fingers around her shot.
Elektra likewise gripped her shot.
“Torrid, on three?”
Torrid nodded.
“One—two—THREE!”
The two women downed the shots smothering the flames with
their mouths as they covered the glasses. They slammed the glasses down on the
counter with a thud and gasped for air.
“WHEW! Goddammit! What a ride!”
“Boss?”
wha? Torrid started. She had been lost in thought,
remembering her partnership with Elektra all those years ago.
“What is it Drew?” asked Torrid, blankly.
“Er—nothing, you just looked all wonky there for a sec.
You okay?”
Torrid snarled and downed the shot in front of her. The
whiskey burned as it went down, and the rush started all over again. She exhaled
loudly, then replied, “Just peachy.”
Drew knew better than to push it; when she was like this,
it was better to just leave her alone. He took the last swig of his beer, then
got up from his chair. “Well, I’m heading home. I’ll walk the dog before I
go. See ya tomorrow. Don’t drink and drive.”
Torrid grunted in response. She was lost in thought.
Elektra.
You insane bitch.
Torrid remembered back to the night that her partnership
with Elektra Knossoss came to an abrupt end. Torrid came to the shop in the
middle of the night to work on some flash Outside there were a lot of cars in
the lot, and it concerned her. She
went to unlock the shop, but the door was open.
“What the fuck?” she said as she entered very
cautiously.
She pulled out her 9m. That she always carried late at
night, and edged her way into the shop. The lights were still off, but the back
room was filled with voices. Voices with accents.
“What the fuck is going on here?” she whispered as she
crept up to the door to peek in.
She saw through the ajar door; gangs of Greek and Russian
hoods doing a dope deal in her back room. She was pissed! Elektra!, she thought.
You fuckin’ bitch!
She saw her best friend and business partner brokering the
deal. And their favorite customer, Jarslov, was her partner in crime.
“Bastard!”
She was so pissed, she didn’t even think. She kicked the
door open and yelled, “Okay fuckers, hands in the air!” Everyone freaked and
started shooting.
“FUCK!” she cried when she felt a sudden hot blast of
pain.
Torrid took one in the leg and shoulder, Elektra’s
bullets. She rolled for cover under an old desk and emptied her clip into the
feet and legs she could see standing around her. The blaring pop of the shots
firing and the cracking of bone were sickening. They all went down like a bag of
potatoes. She limped around disarming them and called the cops. She found
Elektra, bleeding in the corner…her ankles destroyed by Torrid’s bullets.
”Fucking bitch, I should have killed you!” she spat at Torrid.
“I should say the same thing about you, Elektra. WHY??”
she screamed.
“Because you have a code, because you are honorable-“
Elektra laughed mockingly, “It’s easy to hide in plain sight by using you
for cover The tough girl with the heart of gold!” Elektra laughed.
Torrid’s face fell; she had been betrayed and used as a
patsy. This fucking sucked!
“What’s wrong? Oh…you didn’t really believe all
that best friend bullshit? Oh, I am sorry Torrid…people like you are easy
prey. You pretend to be tough, but you are weak! Weak because you give a shit
about something other than yourself.”
Torrid was devastated, but she didn’t show it. She kept
her poker face, “Well you can say what you want, Elektra, but you’re the one
going to jail, and babe don’t drop the soap.” Said Torrid as she stepped
away for the officers to come in and take the fallen thugs, vowing never to
trust another woman again.
Monica Truman walked up the steps to her small flat, and
shifted her groceries in her hands while she fished out her keys. She was glad
to be home as it had been a long day.
She had been in class all morning and work all afternoon.
After deciding to go back to school and study cosmetology, she was a student in
the morning and an accountant in the afternoon, but at night…
She was something else.
She had changed. She had spread her wings; she had broken
out of her shell and really blossomed in her individuality and creativity. She
had pink and purple hair! And everyone stared at her wherever she went. She
loved it.
But tonight, she was tired.
She just wanted to go have a quiet dinner and a quiet
cocktail. She would shower and then go to the corner watering hole, like she had
been meaning to since she moved into the Montrose.
She thought about the conversation she had with her friends when she told them
she was going to be a cosmetologist. They were apprehensive, but supportive.
They must have thought I was nuts, she laughed to herself. Maybe I am,
but for the first time in my life I feel happy. Is that a bad thing?
She fed her fish and put away her things and headed for the
shower. Maybe she would skip dinner and go right for the cocktail.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, she moaned to herself as the
warm water splashed over her tired body, a cosmopolitan sounded so good.
Torrid sipped her whiskey, thinking back on her failed
partnership with Elektra. What had happened? Whatever it was, it was pretty
ugly.
One thing’s for sure, thought Torrid, best
friends make the worst enemies.
She reached into her pocket for another dollar for the
jukebox, and gestured to the barkeep for another drink. She walked over to put
her money in, and could feel the eyes on her as she crossed the room. She
smirked to herself. Easy ladies, there’s plenty to go around, she
thought wickedly to herself.
“Hmmmmmmm, let’s see,” she said as she searched the
selections. “The Rolling Stones, fuck yeah!” she muttered excitedly to
herself.
Monica entered the bar, showed her ID to the door girl, and
took a second for her eyes to adjust to the low light and Smokey haze. The
Rolling Stones “paint it black” began to fill the air, and she smiled.
“Oh I love that song!” she said as she sat at the bar.
“What can I get you?” Asked the very dyke-looking woman
behind the bar.
“Cosmo…can you put it in a martini glass?” Asked
Monica
“Sure, baby doll” she smiled back.
Monica took out her compact and checked her eye makeup and
primped her hair while she waited for her drink.
“Here, sugar,” said the bartender as she placed
Monica’s drink before her.
“Oh thanks!” said Monica as she paid and closed her
purse.
Torrid walked back to her seat looking for her drink.
“Shit,” she said, “guess she didn’t hear me.”
Torrid walked to the bar, she spied a cute piece of ass sitting with her back to
her. Pink hair, she laughed to herself, now that’s fuckin cool.
Torrid let her eyes flow down, she wanted to see more of
this interesting chick. Her soft creamy skin was inviting, and somehow familiar?
Then Torrid saw the edges of the ink. Immediately she recognized her own work;
wings spreading over the girl’s back, the wings of a Pegasus in flight as seen
from above. It was Monica, the girl with the sweet ass, and boy has she
changed! Thought Torrid.
She’s goddamned hot!
Monica felt the presence behind her, but didn’t turn
around. She didn’t want to be bothered really; she just wanted to enjoy her
drink. It had been a long day and she was tired. But the eerie feeling of
someone behind her made her skin gooseflesh, and she shifted in her seat.
Just then she felt the woman lean over behind her, and
whisper in her ear.
“Love the ink,” said the stranger in a low timbre.
“Uh, thanks.” Monica answered shyly.
“I’d like to see the rest of it.” Torrid added.
“Uh…I don’t think so,” said Monica, getting off her
stool to turn around and face the woman. She turned to see Torrid Duncan smiling
wickedly at her.
Monica gasped, “You?”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” said Torrid
wickedly, “I thought I recognized your sweet ass, then I saw the ink.”
Torrid touched Monica’s shoulder where the wing tips protruded from her
sleeveless shell, “Mine.”
“No. Not yours. You made that perfectly clear when you
never called me again. Now piss off and leave me alone!” Said Monica angrily.
Torrid stood there silently and lit a cigarette. She
ordered her drink and paid the bartender. She downed the shot and turned to
Monica coldly, “I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want. All alone
babe. All alone.”
Monica watched as Torrid Duncan left the bar. She frowned.
copyright 2003, Black Cherry. All rights reserved.