I stand at the corner as she buys milk from the store. I look in the window, a voyeur, watching and listening to the people inside. She approaches the counter and pays for the milk --- then, walking to the exit, she draws the attention of the other customers. Almost rudely, they watch her leave with her plastic bag, her two litres of milk and the receipt.
She sits down at the bus stop, relieved to be out of the busy store. Immediately, a trendy middle-aged woman begins to talk to her.
The brand of the milk, the raised prices, the service in the store, and the change of owners two years ago.
If she lives in the area, for how long, her age, occupation and marital status.
The trendy middle-aged woman smiles and waves goodbye as the younger woman steps onto the bus. As the bus leaves she is already talking to the next person to leave the store. The questions begin again.
If she lives in the area, for how long, her age, occupation and marital status.
Original work... kind of a vague satire of reality TV shows, but nobody I've offered it to has connected it. Whether that reflects on my shallow writing style or tells me "Don't write when you are nearly asleep" is something I haven't decided.
Values
Miffy drove along the highway, giggling quietly to herself as the wind rushed in her open window. It was a thrill not often experienced, driving well above the speed limit at night with nobody else on the road. After a while, though, the wind coming in her window changed to thick grey smoke. She pulled over and popped the hood. Not knowing anything about cars, Miffy-girl snapped her fingers in a disgruntled yet feminine manner and flopped out her Nokia 8850™ to call Tyrone. He answered with a curt ‘Talk fast, time is money.’ The situation was explained, the location given, and the plan planned and executed.
Not without some waiting on her part and some driving on his part, the two met up and shared a momentary embrace. Having no clue about what was wrong with the car and having men who did that for him, Tyrone gave a small shrug and the two got into his chariot.
‘I’ll have someone come and take a look at it in the morning.’ He suggested.
‘Okay,’ she okayed.
He flicked on some music and cranked the volume. She lit a Marlboro Gold with a $299 BMW Lifestyle gold-plated lighter (a gift from Tyrone) available at all good BMW dealerships.
As they cruised the highway back to the city the unhappenable happened. A thick spray of blood and brain splattered across the inside of the windscreen. She felt nothing -- Tyrone felt a weight land in his lap. Half of Miffy-girl’s head (now nearly unrecognisable as a head) was now dripping blood and brain into his lap, his Fubu™ pants quickly drinking up the mess.
Tyrone slammed the breaks and turned around to see what the hell had happened. The sudden breaking caused everything in the car to fly to the front, including the Boogie Man and his axe.
‘Ahh bugger!’ was the cry as the Boogie Man flew through the front windscreen and onto the bonnet. The sanguine nectar of life was dripping from his forehead and from a hundred cuts, each with a flake of glass in them.
‘Damn Boogie Man I thought the Halliwell Sisters banished you in episode 13 of ‘Charmed’!’ (You can watch ‘Charmed at 8:30 on Channel 10, Monday nights.) Tyrone said as he got out of the car. Playing it cool, Tyrone was trying to hide the socially unacceptable decoration that his pants featured. Boogie Man grabbed his axe and chased him down the street. ‘Nothing cruisy or mellow about this situation,’ Tyrone thought. ‘I got poop in my pants, blood and brain dripping off me and a crazed Boogie Man chasing me with an axe!’
With that thought still floating through his mind, Tyrone heard a rough squeal behind him. He spun around and saw no Boogie Man. Although people who are regularly chased by the Boogie Man might say this is silly, Tyrone walked towards where he heard the squeal and was puzzled to see Boogie Man hanging by one hand from the rim of a manhole.
‘Help me up, yo,’ the Boogie Man said.
‘You covered my new Fubu™ pants in goo and break my windshield with your head, and you want me to help you up? Oh and you killed my Miffy-girl.’
Tyron grunted. Not hearing the cries and screeches of the Boogie Man, he stepped on the straining fingers with all his weight and strolled away.
‘Damn, I’m going to have to soak these pants when I get home.’
I don't really have any first hand knowledge of hookers and pimps. All my writing is done late at night when I'm really tired, and in that state I sometimes come up with an idea. This time it was a few days after watching romeo must die which is a great movie which (besides some great kung fu from Jet Li) touches on the bad treatment that prostitutes suffer from their pimps. My story ends with Tyrone (the classic purple-velvet pimp name) more worried about getting the blood & brain stain out of his designer-label pants than the grisly death of one of his workers.