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A mummy-hand holding, (former) biker gang affiliating, hippie influenced semi crunchy granola mom's ramblings and reminisings on an off-kilter life

Monday, September 30, 2013

Fiction: Mark of the Beast

He had it coming to him. That toothy jack-o-lantern grin would mark him for life, like the Scarlett Letter's A, displaying his ugly transgressions for all to see.

She arrived at the campsite at dark, later than expected, and was greeted with an opaque cup of vodka with a splash of cola, shoved into her hand, "you gotta make up for time lost, chug it". She closed her eyes, wincing back the scalding burn which soon turned into a warm, swirling, calming familiarity that drove her to order another. It was Spring Break after-all.

She heard the tinny tunes of music reverberating from a car and she danced as the campfire went double-single-double and as her cares were numbed away into a surreal jungle of alcohol. Her stomach began to churn, rusty gears grinding and rusty inside her. She stumbled, barefooted (what the hell happened to my shoes, she thought) through the still-hot sands, weaving around towards the restroom; occupied, she waited outside the concrete block of stench, her legs still moving to the beat of music no longer playing.

That's when it happened.

She heard the screech of tires and hollers of drunken men and looked over to find her friends-maybe they knew of another restroom, maybe they have a spare shirt for me if I retch right here, she thought. Her double vision and intoxication did not process much as she began to climb the tailgate, tattooed arms grabbed her a little too hard, their laughter a little too maniacal. This isn't the truck, she thought. Shit. I don't know these people. She tried to stand up to jump out, but the truck revved up and she was knocked down on her knees, her blood pumped alcohol like a jackhammer into her body which was failing her. Hands began to pull at her skirt, grope her breasts, a Medusa beast pinning her down as she wished she could just black out. Do it, she told herself. Get up. She bit her lip as she exhaled and summoned all the prayers and strength inside her, and began to flail and swing wildly, kicking, biting, screaming a slurred "jou mudder-puckershhh get a puck offa me" as she scrambled for the tailgate and jumped out as the truck rounded a bend, the alcohol numbing the now-sprained ankle and scrapes as she rose from a fall and ran back to camp.

She remembered one of their tattoos, a silhouette of a naked woman as seem on trucker's mud flaps. How befitting. "Jou gotta fine da guysh" she mumbled, as she jumped into the correct truck, the backseat driver for the boys who were gonna seek vengeance.

That's when she saw him, a few sites away, on his tailgate drinking beer and cursing, "that bitch got away". They pulled into his camp and her boyfriend jumped out at warp speed and grabbed the guy by his naked lady tattoo and slammed his face into the campfire rocks. "That "bitch" is my girl," growled her boyfriend, "and you better remember, when you need reconstructive surgery tomorrow, just what you tried to do" and he left him bleeding in the sand, white front teeth decorating the rocks like jewels.

3 comments:

  1. Wow, what a horrifying experience! I can't say I feel bad for the now toothless brute :)

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