Post by The Hannahverser on Apr 17, 2016 1:15:38 GMT
OOC Note: This was intended for a very specific e-federation. Randomness ensued. It was edited to remove that fact. Here it is re-posted in it's original form, complete with inconsistencies.
One day before my cell phone gets cancelled I receive a phone call.
“Hello?”
“This is U speaking.”
Blink.
“What?”
Aggravated sigh on the other end.
“U. This is U speaking.”
“…I….”
“No! D! I like D. Call me D instead cause it STANDS for something.”
“You have the wrong number, D.”
“I do? Shit. All right. Sorry.”
Back to—Damn, the phone again.
“Hello?”
“This is Deu—Hey, what the shit? I didn’t have the wrong number.”
“Who is this?"
“Whatever. Forget the other names. Call me Bad Kitty.”
“Well, you’ve still got the wrong number, Bad Kitty—“
“Don’t you hang up on me, bitch or I’ll gut you like a fucking fish.”
Somebody's watched one too many scary movies. It’s difficult to be hard on the phone. Not so for whoever this chick is. For me, I just don’t feel the necessary attitudinal assets are present in me to impose or intimidate over fiber optics and satelite transmissions. You’re not face to face. I’ve stared down the barrel of a gun, I’ve watched friends get blown away in front of me or worse. That shit’s scary. If this chick, Bad Kitty, or 'I', or ‘U’, or 'D', or whoever she wants to call herself is for real right now she’s going to discover I’m not one to scare so easily, especially not on a phone.
“Yeah, well. That’s nice. Come gut me, cadela.”
Just my luck. The last call I receive turns out to be misleading. She doesn’t call back again, and I think little of it after that. But there’s an envelope slipped under my door not more than half an hour later with my name on it, a wad of cash stuffed inside and a note written in red ink, for effect I'll bet:
It’s enough to be intriguing. The money, I mean. Screw the rest of it, and screw Bad Kitty. I told you, I don’t scare easily. But this much I know: you can be a lot of things in this world, but without cash, you ain’t much. I run it through my fingers to make sure it’s real and think back to,
“You’re up, Thirteen.”
Clueless, I blink at the stage manager.
Que porra é essa?
I never gave him my actual name. When you’re in this line of work, in fact, most lives I’ve led, for protection, it’s typical to give a fake name at least till you’re secure. You can be the toughest S.O.B. on the planet, none of that matters in the face of unpreparedness and the cold steel of violent reality. I don’t like the feel of this place already. Things are going wrong and I haven’t even gotten out there.
It’s only when I notice the white circle of paper with the black number 13 pinned to the strap of my yellow bra that I realize it’s one of those coincidences that can’t be coincidence. I’m full of those, by the way. There’s a lineup of women, girls most of them, waiting in line behind me with other numbers similarly pinned on.
Of course I’d get this number. My mother never named me Thirteen. But it’s stuck on me permanently nonetheless. She died before I was born. Hell, I died before I was born. Funny story. True story. And it’s a story you don’t need to know.
All you need to know is the stage manager’s lucky guess happens to be accurate.
I’m Thirteen.
In Name till the day I die, the number in all its grimly unlucky significance.
And I’m Thirteen by trade.
We’ll get to that.
When I’m over the initial shock, and manage not to trip on my sky-high heels on the extra polished runway, I step out before the small group of people and set to work. I’ve heard enough of the gossip backstage to know to ignore everyone else who’s watching right now. That’s just the staff. Who I’m really dancing my ass off for is the blonde with her feet up in the back row. The one that looks like she wants to be somewhere else. I heard them say backstage she’s Unreal, and not to be fucked with.
Thirteen fact: I don’t give a shit who you are, cadela. Pay Me.
I learn one thing fast: of all the grime and muck I’ve waded through in my life, this is the most hopeless job interview I’ve ever had. She doesn’t even want to be here. Is it me? She looks less impressed with every single move I make. So I amp up every sway of my hips, accentuate every curve, guide my body to flow sensuously to the music till I’m lost in it.
I’ve worked hard for this body. It isn’t difficult to show it off. Lithe. Fit. Strong. Tight. With every eye locked on my figure, hers are the only set of peepers tilted to the ceiling counting tiles. I grip the pole, slide up a thigh, and curve a knee around the metal. Bump. Grind. Swing. Shimmy. I ‘twerk’ like my life depends on it.
It does. I’m broke. I need this.
I dance till a thin layer of sweat is forming on my skin, and I’m worrying that I must not have chosen waterproof eyeliner, or maybe my bikini’s the wrong choice of color for my skin tone. So many things can go wrong, and I’ve learned from experience, it’s the little things that kill. I’m not a pro. But I am fucking good at this. And I just happen to make that one false step onto the extra slippery patch on the runway that sees me lose my footing, my heel slides off the runway, and I bail.
Again, I’m no pro, but I’m pretty good. I end up in the splits and make it look like that was part of the show just in time for the generic music to die down leaving me panting and eyeing the blonde for approval I wish I didn’t need.
And she just. Fucking. Yawns.
“Not only is that the shittiest splits you’ve ever split, you slipped your nip in the process, bitch. That’s enough from 13. She isn’t very lucky.”
May as well extend a giant novelty cane to yank me off the stage. Embarrassed, I quickly tuck my boob back into my top and shuttle myself off that stage like there were more eyes watching than the small smattering of an audience I just had would attest. Maybe it’s for the best.
Who’d want to work at a “House of Fun” anyway?
A quick wardrobe change and I’m out of ‘Purity Louisiana’ with white knuckles on the steering wheel of the beat up Chevy Impala I bought with the last big pay cheque I’d ever earned and glared into the rear-view at myself.
“What are you going to do now, bitch?”
It’s a short trip to beating myself up over losing that gig. Best not to dwell. Bad luck can’t stay bad, right? Besides, the gas tank needs topping up.
“That’ll be $13 even.”
The clerk’s name tag reads ‘Jimmy’. He looks like a Jimmy. He’s got a Jimmy face, Jimmy haircut, Jimmy eyes, and even Jimmy hands. Looks like he’s wanking it behind the counter, or shaking some dice he’s about to roll on whether I’ve got the money, like he’s already gambling on his chances of scoring due to my failure to pay a bill. I really hope I’m being paranoid.
Filha da Puta, I curse under my breath as I realize I’ve only got $11. Jimmy’s eyebrows wag suggestively. Wordless, I give him the “Say no more, ‘Jimmy’” look and remove the pack of gum from the counter with a roll of my eyes and place it back on the shelf and look out the window waiting for him to ring me up the new price.
“That’ll be $11.13.”
That awkward moment I was ready to say one thing only to choke up completely and lose all semblance of arrogance.
“I don’t have 13 cents. Can’t we call it even? I’ve got a smile for you. Will that cover it?”
One of those things you wish you hadn’t said out loud. But there it is. I'm batting my eyelashes as I double check his register and eye him like he just kicked my dog, which, by the way, I had to sell two years ago to a jackass that looked just like this sheister Jimmy. There’s that shit-eating grin.
“I already got a smile. And it’s growing. I need my 13 cents. Store policy.”
“I did not pump eleven dollars and thirteen cents of gas. You’re ripping me off.”
“The register don’t lie, miss. Maybe you weren’t paying attention.”
“Badalhoca.”
“Sorry, what? Chupa meu pau, cadela”
What, did I happen to mouth off to the one Portuguese-speaking Jimmy in all of "Purity", Louisiana?
“I want my 13 cents. Unless… you have some other way to pay me.”
There’s that eye wag again. Truth be told now, better lay the ground work for the future and point out I’m not going any further than a side boob for 13 cents. That’s a rule.
And, luckily for me, evidently, Jimmy likes used undies. I’m driving out of that lot 11 dollars lighter, and one yellow bikini short. Guess sometimes I can get lucky...
And now this. The note still in my hands, the wad of cash already slipped into my bra for safe keeping and a frown on my face to consider the vague details I’ve been left with.
So… is this Kitty person actually Jimmy?
That’d be fucked up, pardon my saying so.
And how does anyone know I wrestle?
Yeah. I wrestled. Have wrestled. Past tense. For a long time I was a wrestler of some repute. The perennial up-and-comer till the ladder got kicked out from under me. I watched the rungs go missing, or climbed by others.
There’s a lot of reasons why I’m not a wrestler currently, and a lot of good reasons why I can think of why I shouldn’t even bother with this Purity, Louisiana thing.
A wad of cash, and a mysterious letter?
Yeah. Riiiiight. This doesn’t sound like a whole metric ton of bad news waiting to happen.
I can just pocket the cash, right? It’s not unheard of, even if it’d be incredibly poor foresight on my part. Once this cash is gone it’s right back where I started with no true prospects in sight.
A lead is a lead. Guess I'm going to Purity, Louisiana.
Time to be a wrestler again.
Prologue
One day before my cell phone gets cancelled I receive a phone call.
“Hello?”
“This is U speaking.”
Blink.
“What?”
Aggravated sigh on the other end.
“U. This is U speaking.”
“…I….”
“No! D! I like D. Call me D instead cause it STANDS for something.”
“You have the wrong number, D.”
“I do? Shit. All right. Sorry.”
Click.
Back to—Damn, the phone again.
“Hello?”
“This is Deu—Hey, what the shit? I didn’t have the wrong number.”
“Who is this?"
“Whatever. Forget the other names. Call me Bad Kitty.”
“Well, you’ve still got the wrong number, Bad Kitty—“
“Don’t you hang up on me, bitch or I’ll gut you like a fucking fish.”
Somebody's watched one too many scary movies. It’s difficult to be hard on the phone. Not so for whoever this chick is. For me, I just don’t feel the necessary attitudinal assets are present in me to impose or intimidate over fiber optics and satelite transmissions. You’re not face to face. I’ve stared down the barrel of a gun, I’ve watched friends get blown away in front of me or worse. That shit’s scary. If this chick, Bad Kitty, or 'I', or ‘U’, or 'D', or whoever she wants to call herself is for real right now she’s going to discover I’m not one to scare so easily, especially not on a phone.
“Yeah, well. That’s nice. Come gut me, cadela.”
Click.
Just my luck. The last call I receive turns out to be misleading. She doesn’t call back again, and I think little of it after that. But there’s an envelope slipped under my door not more than half an hour later with my name on it, a wad of cash stuffed inside and a note written in red ink, for effect I'll bet:
I hear you know how to wrestle.
Were/Was/Could have been good.
I’d like to see that.
Purity, Louisiana.
Ever heard of it?
Of course you have.
The cash Could/Might/Would get you there.
Should/Can/Will get your foot in the door.
Most of the rest is up to you.
Don’t you dare mention me, this letter, or any time I ever contact you.
This is not a threat.
I might see you again some time.
Might even be more treats where this came from.
Sincerely,
Bad Kitty
P.S. What’s Cadela mean?
Were/Was/Could have been good.
I’d like to see that.
Purity, Louisiana.
Ever heard of it?
Of course you have.
The cash Could/Might/Would get you there.
Should/Can/Will get your foot in the door.
Most of the rest is up to you.
Don’t you dare mention me, this letter, or any time I ever contact you.
This is not a threat.
I might see you again some time.
Might even be more treats where this came from.
Sincerely,
Bad Kitty
P.S. What’s Cadela mean?
It’s enough to be intriguing. The money, I mean. Screw the rest of it, and screw Bad Kitty. I told you, I don’t scare easily. But this much I know: you can be a lot of things in this world, but without cash, you ain’t much. I run it through my fingers to make sure it’s real and think back to,
December, 2015
Purity Louisiana
Purity Louisiana
“You’re up, Thirteen.”
Clueless, I blink at the stage manager.
Que porra é essa?
I never gave him my actual name. When you’re in this line of work, in fact, most lives I’ve led, for protection, it’s typical to give a fake name at least till you’re secure. You can be the toughest S.O.B. on the planet, none of that matters in the face of unpreparedness and the cold steel of violent reality. I don’t like the feel of this place already. Things are going wrong and I haven’t even gotten out there.
It’s only when I notice the white circle of paper with the black number 13 pinned to the strap of my yellow bra that I realize it’s one of those coincidences that can’t be coincidence. I’m full of those, by the way. There’s a lineup of women, girls most of them, waiting in line behind me with other numbers similarly pinned on.
Of course I’d get this number. My mother never named me Thirteen. But it’s stuck on me permanently nonetheless. She died before I was born. Hell, I died before I was born. Funny story. True story. And it’s a story you don’t need to know.
All you need to know is the stage manager’s lucky guess happens to be accurate.
I’m Thirteen.
In Name till the day I die, the number in all its grimly unlucky significance.
And I’m Thirteen by trade.
We’ll get to that.
When I’m over the initial shock, and manage not to trip on my sky-high heels on the extra polished runway, I step out before the small group of people and set to work. I’ve heard enough of the gossip backstage to know to ignore everyone else who’s watching right now. That’s just the staff. Who I’m really dancing my ass off for is the blonde with her feet up in the back row. The one that looks like she wants to be somewhere else. I heard them say backstage she’s Unreal, and not to be fucked with.
Thirteen fact: I don’t give a shit who you are, cadela. Pay Me.
I learn one thing fast: of all the grime and muck I’ve waded through in my life, this is the most hopeless job interview I’ve ever had. She doesn’t even want to be here. Is it me? She looks less impressed with every single move I make. So I amp up every sway of my hips, accentuate every curve, guide my body to flow sensuously to the music till I’m lost in it.
I’ve worked hard for this body. It isn’t difficult to show it off. Lithe. Fit. Strong. Tight. With every eye locked on my figure, hers are the only set of peepers tilted to the ceiling counting tiles. I grip the pole, slide up a thigh, and curve a knee around the metal. Bump. Grind. Swing. Shimmy. I ‘twerk’ like my life depends on it.
It does. I’m broke. I need this.
I dance till a thin layer of sweat is forming on my skin, and I’m worrying that I must not have chosen waterproof eyeliner, or maybe my bikini’s the wrong choice of color for my skin tone. So many things can go wrong, and I’ve learned from experience, it’s the little things that kill. I’m not a pro. But I am fucking good at this. And I just happen to make that one false step onto the extra slippery patch on the runway that sees me lose my footing, my heel slides off the runway, and I bail.
Again, I’m no pro, but I’m pretty good. I end up in the splits and make it look like that was part of the show just in time for the generic music to die down leaving me panting and eyeing the blonde for approval I wish I didn’t need.
And she just. Fucking. Yawns.
“Not only is that the shittiest splits you’ve ever split, you slipped your nip in the process, bitch. That’s enough from 13. She isn’t very lucky.”
May as well extend a giant novelty cane to yank me off the stage. Embarrassed, I quickly tuck my boob back into my top and shuttle myself off that stage like there were more eyes watching than the small smattering of an audience I just had would attest. Maybe it’s for the best.
Who’d want to work at a “House of Fun” anyway?
A quick wardrobe change and I’m out of ‘Purity Louisiana’ with white knuckles on the steering wheel of the beat up Chevy Impala I bought with the last big pay cheque I’d ever earned and glared into the rear-view at myself.
“What are you going to do now, bitch?”
It’s a short trip to beating myself up over losing that gig. Best not to dwell. Bad luck can’t stay bad, right? Besides, the gas tank needs topping up.
“That’ll be $13 even.”
The clerk’s name tag reads ‘Jimmy’. He looks like a Jimmy. He’s got a Jimmy face, Jimmy haircut, Jimmy eyes, and even Jimmy hands. Looks like he’s wanking it behind the counter, or shaking some dice he’s about to roll on whether I’ve got the money, like he’s already gambling on his chances of scoring due to my failure to pay a bill. I really hope I’m being paranoid.
Filha da Puta, I curse under my breath as I realize I’ve only got $11. Jimmy’s eyebrows wag suggestively. Wordless, I give him the “Say no more, ‘Jimmy’” look and remove the pack of gum from the counter with a roll of my eyes and place it back on the shelf and look out the window waiting for him to ring me up the new price.
“That’ll be $11.13.”
That awkward moment I was ready to say one thing only to choke up completely and lose all semblance of arrogance.
“I don’t have 13 cents. Can’t we call it even? I’ve got a smile for you. Will that cover it?”
One of those things you wish you hadn’t said out loud. But there it is. I'm batting my eyelashes as I double check his register and eye him like he just kicked my dog, which, by the way, I had to sell two years ago to a jackass that looked just like this sheister Jimmy. There’s that shit-eating grin.
“I already got a smile. And it’s growing. I need my 13 cents. Store policy.”
“I did not pump eleven dollars and thirteen cents of gas. You’re ripping me off.”
“The register don’t lie, miss. Maybe you weren’t paying attention.”
“Badalhoca.”
“Sorry, what? Chupa meu pau, cadela”
What, did I happen to mouth off to the one Portuguese-speaking Jimmy in all of "Purity", Louisiana?
“I want my 13 cents. Unless… you have some other way to pay me.”
There’s that eye wag again. Truth be told now, better lay the ground work for the future and point out I’m not going any further than a side boob for 13 cents. That’s a rule.
And, luckily for me, evidently, Jimmy likes used undies. I’m driving out of that lot 11 dollars lighter, and one yellow bikini short. Guess sometimes I can get lucky...
And now this. The note still in my hands, the wad of cash already slipped into my bra for safe keeping and a frown on my face to consider the vague details I’ve been left with.
So… is this Kitty person actually Jimmy?
That’d be fucked up, pardon my saying so.
And how does anyone know I wrestle?
Yeah. I wrestled. Have wrestled. Past tense. For a long time I was a wrestler of some repute. The perennial up-and-comer till the ladder got kicked out from under me. I watched the rungs go missing, or climbed by others.
There’s a lot of reasons why I’m not a wrestler currently, and a lot of good reasons why I can think of why I shouldn’t even bother with this Purity, Louisiana thing.
A wad of cash, and a mysterious letter?
Yeah. Riiiiight. This doesn’t sound like a whole metric ton of bad news waiting to happen.
I can just pocket the cash, right? It’s not unheard of, even if it’d be incredibly poor foresight on my part. Once this cash is gone it’s right back where I started with no true prospects in sight.
A lead is a lead. Guess I'm going to Purity, Louisiana.
Time to be a wrestler again.