only a foot or two below her, the bridge itself thrumming with the crazy power of so much muddy water bombing past. Gina goggled down into deep river space then pulled her sweater off over her head, spread her arms wide open to the sprizz of the water. “Yeeeeah!”
“Hey! Get outta the way!”
Gina turned to see a skinny guy walking a purple and green painted wheelchair.
“Din’t yo mommy teach you ta watch yer back?” He stopped next to her, crowding her against the metal screen railing. He peered at the delicate vines tattooed around her left arm, at the datura blossoms inked by the same Mission district master artist on her right. “Wow.” Up and down, moving closer. “Nice ink, babe!”
Gina glared at the gimp, she slid away from him. His T-shirt exposed beef-jerky muscles covered with blackwork tattoos. Thick lines where the ink had bled through the skin made the ugly skeletal forms worse. Both lower legs were similarly covered. Badly executed fake-tribal. The whites of his eyes were dead yellow, no pupil, his face didn’t move when he spoke. Not good. “Get the fuck away from me.”
He grabbed her arm, turning it to examine it closely. “Looks like my work, here.” He leaned forward. “This here jus like my design.” He ran his tongue up her inner arm.
Relax arm, bend knees, step to the side, and twist sharp. “You simple-minded fuckhead—”
There was more she was going to say, but his fist slammed into her face, she felt her right eye crack like an egg, sudden yolk ran red down her neck. She took a deep breath, a low crooning subsonic kind of sound began in her belly, spun out of her mouth. Her toes curled back, she popped his dick with the ball of her foot, and while he crouched in the traditional male oof position, she jumped straight up in the air, clasped her hands together, and whacked his head into a steel girder. He made a satisfying clang sound.
She grabbed the wheelchair and heaved it over the railing into the river. A classic finishing move. Hoo hoo hoo .
Gina took fragile steps along the bridge, back the way she had come, muttering to herself. She snapped her fingers at the spot where she figured the camera would be: Kiss my ass .
As she stepped off the bridge she saw Karen’s lanky figure running toward her. Gina took her hand off her eye and waved, spattering drops of blood which disappeared in the drizzle before they hit the ground. Gina’s one-eye vision wobbled. Karen? Long sweater, long skirt, cowboy hat? Two long black braids swung out behind the woman as she ran.
“What happened?”
“Uhhh,” Gina said, waving at the staggering figure on the bridge. “Uhh. Tattoo pride. What can I say?”
“Put your hand over your eye, press down. Wait. No. Don’t press on it, you might make it worse. Tilt your head back. Wait, no, don’t tilt it back, you won’t see where you’re going—here, lean on me.”
Gina grinned up at her friend. “Calm down, Allllhambrah. Just point me to your car. This ain’t my first head wound, surely won’t be the last. C’mon. Let’s blow Guerneville.”
Gina wrapped her sweater around her head before she got in the car so she wouldn’t bloody-up the upholstery. Tires squealed, there was no traffic so Karen took it from zero to sixty in, well, it was an old wreck of a car so it made it to sixty in a couple, three, maybe four blocks. Held steady around the curves.
“Ahhh. That felt good. I mean, now it feels really bad—you do have dope at home, don’t you? But outside of this ex-cruciatin pain here, I been needin to do that for months.” Gina tipped her head into her hand. “I can see why they hava camera on that bridge. The Mission’s a snooze in comparison. Izzit this excitin generally?”
Alhambra spoke through her teeth, “I have some Percocet, and no, it’s not usually like that. Generally people just hang out. Yunno. But that guy—well.” A dozen turns, over a couple more bridges, onto a gravel and dirt road, some more
“Hey! Get outta the way!”
Gina turned to see a skinny guy walking a purple and green painted wheelchair.
“Din’t yo mommy teach you ta watch yer back?” He stopped next to her, crowding her against the metal screen railing. He peered at the delicate vines tattooed around her left arm, at the datura blossoms inked by the same Mission district master artist on her right. “Wow.” Up and down, moving closer. “Nice ink, babe!”
Gina glared at the gimp, she slid away from him. His T-shirt exposed beef-jerky muscles covered with blackwork tattoos. Thick lines where the ink had bled through the skin made the ugly skeletal forms worse. Both lower legs were similarly covered. Badly executed fake-tribal. The whites of his eyes were dead yellow, no pupil, his face didn’t move when he spoke. Not good. “Get the fuck away from me.”
He grabbed her arm, turning it to examine it closely. “Looks like my work, here.” He leaned forward. “This here jus like my design.” He ran his tongue up her inner arm.
Relax arm, bend knees, step to the side, and twist sharp. “You simple-minded fuckhead—”
There was more she was going to say, but his fist slammed into her face, she felt her right eye crack like an egg, sudden yolk ran red down her neck. She took a deep breath, a low crooning subsonic kind of sound began in her belly, spun out of her mouth. Her toes curled back, she popped his dick with the ball of her foot, and while he crouched in the traditional male oof position, she jumped straight up in the air, clasped her hands together, and whacked his head into a steel girder. He made a satisfying clang sound.
She grabbed the wheelchair and heaved it over the railing into the river. A classic finishing move. Hoo hoo hoo .
Gina took fragile steps along the bridge, back the way she had come, muttering to herself. She snapped her fingers at the spot where she figured the camera would be: Kiss my ass .
As she stepped off the bridge she saw Karen’s lanky figure running toward her. Gina took her hand off her eye and waved, spattering drops of blood which disappeared in the drizzle before they hit the ground. Gina’s one-eye vision wobbled. Karen? Long sweater, long skirt, cowboy hat? Two long black braids swung out behind the woman as she ran.
“What happened?”
“Uhhh,” Gina said, waving at the staggering figure on the bridge. “Uhh. Tattoo pride. What can I say?”
“Put your hand over your eye, press down. Wait. No. Don’t press on it, you might make it worse. Tilt your head back. Wait, no, don’t tilt it back, you won’t see where you’re going—here, lean on me.”
Gina grinned up at her friend. “Calm down, Allllhambrah. Just point me to your car. This ain’t my first head wound, surely won’t be the last. C’mon. Let’s blow Guerneville.”
Gina wrapped her sweater around her head before she got in the car so she wouldn’t bloody-up the upholstery. Tires squealed, there was no traffic so Karen took it from zero to sixty in, well, it was an old wreck of a car so it made it to sixty in a couple, three, maybe four blocks. Held steady around the curves.
“Ahhh. That felt good. I mean, now it feels really bad—you do have dope at home, don’t you? But outside of this ex-cruciatin pain here, I been needin to do that for months.” Gina tipped her head into her hand. “I can see why they hava camera on that bridge. The Mission’s a snooze in comparison. Izzit this excitin generally?”
Alhambra spoke through her teeth, “I have some Percocet, and no, it’s not usually like that. Generally people just hang out. Yunno. But that guy—well.” A dozen turns, over a couple more bridges, onto a gravel and dirt road, some more
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