She sort of bumps the door open with her hind end, ignoring the door man. The flat wooden obstacle gently smacks the inside wall causing a sign that reads, “Jacket and tie required” to fall from its poorly placed nail. Paying little attention to the posting, or the gasp of a plump old woman in a hideous taupe gown, she nonchallantly strolls past the hostess.
Baggy khaki cargo pants that dare to tumble from boney hips kiss the floor near the heels of heavy boots, while strings of loose cloth sweep the Spanish tile. A man’s filthy white undershirt hugs her feminine form, accentuating all the right areas.But the fabric is not thick enough to veil the crimson bra. Dark blonde hair loosely planted near the top of her head in a long braid dotted with twigs and grime, bounces between her shoulder blades. Absolutely no make-up adorns the face of the woman, though her naturally high cheek bones, full lips, button nose that clearly has been broken at some point and structured brow brings a hidden sense of intrigue to the soiled appearance.
Each step brings her closer to the posh bar that bustles with social lights, politicians and others who deem themselves worthy enough to drink Cosmopolitans at $15 a pop. Casting one long leg over a stool, she slides onto the seat next to a businessman in fitted Armani. Maybe it was the unkempt odor that filled the air around her, but the man quickly vacates his seat with a scowl.
With one elbow on the mahogany countertop, she cups her chin in her hand, waiting for service.
A young bar tender with a trimmed goatee and manicured nails hastens to the lone woman who is drawing a substantial amount of attention and upsetting many of the patrons. “Miss,” he leans in, attempting to keep his voice low, “you need to leave.”
Her rich hazel orbs sweep to his name tag, all the while using her pinky to pull unwanted debris from between her back teeth. “David, is it?” She mumbles past the obstruction in her mouth, then spits out the liberated item. “How ‘bout you get me a whiskey sour.” It is not a question.
The man’s eyes widen, confused by the request. “I don’t think you understand. You should leave before I have to call security.”
Nearby, a couple of nip-tucked women, in search of deep pocketed men, are mumbling under their breath and pointing at the strange woman in men’s clothing.
A hint of excitement glitters in her eyes as David waits impatiently. “I recognize that a job like this involves you having to put up with rigid ass holes and in-bred bitches.” She spins in her stool and glares at the women who fall silent. “But my money is just as good as plastic tits' over there.” She is referring to, of course, the size 2 lady with double D breasts that are heaved up into flowing masses toward her chin. She rifles around in a cargo pant pocket and withdraws a wad of hundred dollar bills, slamming them onto the counter, then shoots a glare back toward David. “Now get me my damned drink.”
The tender rushes off to the end of the bar toward a phone.
While she waits, she plucks out a Swiss army pocket knife from between her full bosoms, pulling the blade free with straight front teeth. Sinking the honed edge into the well polished bar, she carves the following phrase, “C.C. was here”. The weapon is finally stowed between the deep crevice of flesh as her lithe 5’7 frame lifts off the stool. At this point, three large bouncers guided by David are approaching her with determination on their minds.
Casually strolling toward the women who had yet to take their eyes off of her, she inches up to the one she has referred to as plastic tits. She eyes the cowering boy toy coolly, those hazel orbs defiantly boasting confidence. Her filthy long fingers lift to the woman’s face…everyone in the bar gasps in anticipation. But, instead of hitting her, she merely clutches a misplaced auburn strand of hair and tucks it behind a diamond studded ear. The nervous woman sighs as a bead of sweat trickles down to her brow.
Then the insubordinate, out-of-place woman grabs her own ample breasts and grins. “Ya know how much these cost me? Not a damn thing.” She walks off as the bouncers finish closing the gap, chuckling about plastic tits.
As she nears the exit, she pauses, a few of those who are perched nearby would likely hear her say, “I’m sick and tired of stupid just followin’ me around. I need to start killin’ more.” She sighs and dips her head, allowing strands of tangled dirty blond hair to plummet over her striking features. One arm rests casually on a hip as she glances over her shoulder and steadies her gaze on the next soon to be victim. Fingers lace around the hilt of an unseen blade. “Time to die,” she remarks with a devilish grin.
© Copyright 2016 Kynase. All rights reserved.
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