SNUFF (h.s.)

Chapter 29

The Asphalt

The heavy rain didn't trouble Marilou. She was used to take it. And she had to decide whether she'd deal with Sergio or he'd take her in his palm and squeeze' er till she turns to jam.

Sergio was like a stodge's all-nighter heartburns. She'd lost her sleep a while ago now and the hours before dawn were tiring. But she wouldn't have her fill with blue, yellow, stripped or tartan pills after a great dinner with quiche lorraine, cordon bleu and apple-topped steak. Instead, she was driving through the thick rain to his disco joint.

Her presence at some of his gatherings had raised a few brows already. Yet, a few brows were no reason for her to worry since no one had really seen her there. She had her share of tricks but their filth wasn't worthy of appearing in any channel news. She's a big girl enough to regret.

The gun holster was pressing her chest like a tight corset. Her teeth pulled a long sweaty cigarette from the creased "Apache" box in her pocket. She threw the plastic wrap between her legs and almost ate half of the cig. The "Apache" lighter seemed to light on its own as she kept the filter in her long firm lips.

She was driving like a lush. She'd lean to wipe the dust off her poisonous insect glass block collection on the dash, close the glove box then the radio or she'd light another cigarette taking her hands off the wheel to brush the ash off her brown shirt and adjust the holster strap under her soaked armpit. The car was going off its trails but she managed to deal with it every time.

Marilou's mouth was sweet saving the worst word for anyone coming across her – she almost had the whole town under her thumb as the whole town had her. She'd overheard a couple secrets, she knew how to keep them to herself letting them know she does so. But what Sergio could keep to himself best was a gun and he always let her know. The pool's fresh water embracing his thespians' half-naked bodies was no different from the one running under in the sewers except that Nora wasn't swimming there.

Sergio was keeping Marilou's forehead greasy and flushed. The collar and the back end of her shirt were stained at any day of the week, her chest bloated as if she was locked in a steamy bathroom. She always stinks of Nestlé's dried chocolate milk. She wouldn't do him the favor. She gripped the wheel as her cigarette flipped its smoking tip to her nose when she stretched her jaw.

If she could ornate a smug with a bullet, she would but later she'd realize that even if she did, she'd run out of shots before she'd run out of heads. Her snit was making skulls of smoke come out of her ears and the bullets were cutting low. The bullets belong to the heart, the dead outnumber the living.

"I'll fuck you with your guts, prick", the cigarette fell on the seat and she pressed it with her palm. She couldn't feel the itching burn. She rubbed her hand on her thigh and lit another. She had arrived at the disco joint. If he was in there, she wouldn't hesitate to grab him by the neck and throw him in her cruiser with a kick on his prideful ass.

She banged the car door behind her and tossed the wet cigarette. She loped to the entrance. Marilou's step was sharp and cruel like the rain. A peculiar night in Roseville. It would seem that each of her moves were considered as her slow serious shadow approached. The raindrops were long fingers tracing the indolent void.

Her life wasn't compact and instant, the weekend didn't pass by to bring back the Mondays. Marilou was sensing her life in her lungs at last. Her heartbeat was silent and humble. Her hands weren't hasty, her breathing was hopeful. The water was streaming on her skin making it gleam as if she'd never hurt anybody. She understood what she'd traded the past few years.

She went into the discothèque cautious. The moments she should crave for, she let them go by. Her disdain never broke her heart. She stood at a corner to catch her breath. Her palms were itchy and swollen. She sighed trying to figure if Sergio was around. His joint wasn't like it used to. There were grooving fellas and shoulder-poking folks sipping drinks, but not like the glory days. He'd stayed where she put him.