succulent pork. And it’s true.
Don’t believe me? Try it. Preferably with a honey crisp apple gastrique.)
Wendy unzipped the baggie, plucking a
thread of sinew off the stripper’s wrist. She dangled it over her gaping maw as
though feeding a mouse to a python. Wendy gave it a few assessing chews, before
nodding. “Yep. Human.”
“Whatever,” Gil said without turning back
to them. “They must have a sixth sense or something.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
The next few seconds should have passed
by in a hazy slow-motion blur like they do in the movies, but no. The car
shifted so violently toward the median, I thought our heads would topple from
our necks and roll around the floorboard like spare change and bottle tops. A
crunching sound echoed from the direction of the impact, just beyond Abuelita,
as though she were eating the crispiest potato chip ever, mouth open. On
purpose.
I craned my head in that direction.
The steel hook was the first thing to
catch my eye. Boyoncé hung precariously from the driver’s side window, shaking
his bloody stump at us, at me, a fresh butcher’s meat hook jutting from the
flayed skin and sinew. He really needed to get that looked at, by someone other
than me, or at the very least secure it with a sturdy wrapping of duct tape. It
wobbled feebly.
It didn’t look that delicious when there
was a hand attached. My foot crept to the brake.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Wendy
screamed, reaching her foot across to pound down the accelerator and my foot,
since it was kind of in her way.
The Volvo lurched forward and I got a
look at exactly what was following us. A purple corvette straight out of a
Prince video, though the symbol on the hood was likely the result of having sat
beneath a shedding pine tree than any intentional obtuseness.
“I show them,” Abuelita growled, pausing
her video and grabbing her gat.
“Oh shit,” Gil ducked.
Wendy grinned wickedly and I just sort of
swerved, as you do when bullets are about to start flying and you can’t figure
out what the hell to do. The highway jogged to the left then right and I was
certain I was going to flip the Volvo. The crazed Chola got off her first round
and missed. Apparently.
Malibu Barbie flanked us, shook his
bloody hook in my direction.
“Your people are insane, Gil.”
“Don't box me in with the Golden Boys.
Anal sex doesn't make you insane or Wendy would be wearing a straight jacket
instead of that fake Gucci.”
“It isn't fake and...wait, did you just
say...I don't do anything related to the brown area. No. Just no.”
“That's not what I heard,” Gil said, a
little snort of laughter escaping.
“Well, you talk to rather seedy
individuals, mostly over the internet because you're a fucking flower in the
attic at this point. Too bad you don't have a Chris to call your very own,
Cathy.”
The car took another hit, this time from
directly behind, but instead of freaking out, I got the bright idea to slam on
the brakes, the Corvette scooped up under the Volvo's bumper for a moment and
all of us screamed, particularly Gil, but not Abuelita who continued to fire
out of her window, aiming at nothing in particular and certainly not hitting
any of the Golden Boys who had somehow managed to put the top down on the
convertible and were swinging their arms in the air like they had lassos, also
hooting and hollering in a way much more suited for the dance floor than a high
speed chase. They really needed some instruction on proper villainy.
I kicked the pedal to the floor and
pulled off of their hood, the Volvo dropping to the concrete with a jarring
thud. I stood on the accelerator as we tore away from the go-go boys, the
corvette's speed dwindling.
“I think we've lost them,” I said, but no
one responded.
Wendy sat beside me, her arms crossed
tightly across her chest, mouth scrunched up like cat butt and clearly pissed
at Gil's accusation.
I decided to intervene—God knows
why, it never benefits
Don’t believe me? Try it. Preferably with a honey crisp apple gastrique.)
Wendy unzipped the baggie, plucking a
thread of sinew off the stripper’s wrist. She dangled it over her gaping maw as
though feeding a mouse to a python. Wendy gave it a few assessing chews, before
nodding. “Yep. Human.”
“Whatever,” Gil said without turning back
to them. “They must have a sixth sense or something.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
The next few seconds should have passed
by in a hazy slow-motion blur like they do in the movies, but no. The car
shifted so violently toward the median, I thought our heads would topple from
our necks and roll around the floorboard like spare change and bottle tops. A
crunching sound echoed from the direction of the impact, just beyond Abuelita,
as though she were eating the crispiest potato chip ever, mouth open. On
purpose.
I craned my head in that direction.
The steel hook was the first thing to
catch my eye. Boyoncé hung precariously from the driver’s side window, shaking
his bloody stump at us, at me, a fresh butcher’s meat hook jutting from the
flayed skin and sinew. He really needed to get that looked at, by someone other
than me, or at the very least secure it with a sturdy wrapping of duct tape. It
wobbled feebly.
It didn’t look that delicious when there
was a hand attached. My foot crept to the brake.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Wendy
screamed, reaching her foot across to pound down the accelerator and my foot,
since it was kind of in her way.
The Volvo lurched forward and I got a
look at exactly what was following us. A purple corvette straight out of a
Prince video, though the symbol on the hood was likely the result of having sat
beneath a shedding pine tree than any intentional obtuseness.
“I show them,” Abuelita growled, pausing
her video and grabbing her gat.
“Oh shit,” Gil ducked.
Wendy grinned wickedly and I just sort of
swerved, as you do when bullets are about to start flying and you can’t figure
out what the hell to do. The highway jogged to the left then right and I was
certain I was going to flip the Volvo. The crazed Chola got off her first round
and missed. Apparently.
Malibu Barbie flanked us, shook his
bloody hook in my direction.
“Your people are insane, Gil.”
“Don't box me in with the Golden Boys.
Anal sex doesn't make you insane or Wendy would be wearing a straight jacket
instead of that fake Gucci.”
“It isn't fake and...wait, did you just
say...I don't do anything related to the brown area. No. Just no.”
“That's not what I heard,” Gil said, a
little snort of laughter escaping.
“Well, you talk to rather seedy
individuals, mostly over the internet because you're a fucking flower in the
attic at this point. Too bad you don't have a Chris to call your very own,
Cathy.”
The car took another hit, this time from
directly behind, but instead of freaking out, I got the bright idea to slam on
the brakes, the Corvette scooped up under the Volvo's bumper for a moment and
all of us screamed, particularly Gil, but not Abuelita who continued to fire
out of her window, aiming at nothing in particular and certainly not hitting
any of the Golden Boys who had somehow managed to put the top down on the
convertible and were swinging their arms in the air like they had lassos, also
hooting and hollering in a way much more suited for the dance floor than a high
speed chase. They really needed some instruction on proper villainy.
I kicked the pedal to the floor and
pulled off of their hood, the Volvo dropping to the concrete with a jarring
thud. I stood on the accelerator as we tore away from the go-go boys, the
corvette's speed dwindling.
“I think we've lost them,” I said, but no
one responded.
Wendy sat beside me, her arms crossed
tightly across her chest, mouth scrunched up like cat butt and clearly pissed
at Gil's accusation.
I decided to intervene—God knows
why, it never benefits
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