Quietly now, I slip into the shadows. The darkness envelopes me in a
comforting shroud, a shroud fastened by the thread of tears and blood. A
shroud of death. My cigarette falls now, as if in slow motion, until it
hits the wet cement. I crush it with the heel of my black boots, real nice
boots for kicking in the faces of the innocent. That seems to be all I am.
The harbinger of ultra-violence, the dispeller of hope and truth. Why do I
question my existence? It seems this is all I am meant to be. I do not
worry anymore. Just slip, so slowly, into the shadows . . . .
"Hey, Rosary," The emotionless tone of a fellow soldier stirs me and I turn. It is hard to be a woman in a world of war. Codename: Rosary; I am a woman of beauty and seduction … and death. My kiss is fatal; I am a rattlesnake, ready to pounce. It is a lonely life. But it is a life.
I turn and stare out the train window, burgundy and brown swirling about in the compartment of the Midnight Express. "What is it, Dalzell?" I ask, my yellow eyes staring into my reflection and seeing a pair much like my own.
"Who is this 'Viscous' you want to see so badly? I think it's a bad deal," said a fat man with mo hair and a pencil thin mustache, all the while preparing to light a fat cigar, "Getting mixed up with the Red Dragons is no business for a couple of small fries like us. I have a bad feeling."
My eyes begin to shine, and I turn away from my reflection with mild disgust. "Don't worry, Dalzell, I have experience dealing with the big boys." I smile with false seduction and touch his chin with my gleaming fingernails. In a baby voice, I pinch his cheeks and say, "You'll find these boys are no more than pussy cats." I finish as I lightly slap the round protrusions hanging near his mouth.
He looks at me like an animal and I am disgusted. I never had a stomach, let alone an appetite, for the likes of him. He smiles, his beaver teeth cutting into his bottom lip. "Miss Rosary," he says, a little more familiar than before, " I have nothing but the utmost trust in your judgment. But this 'Viscous' is a shady guy, and he has enemies we know almost nothing about. Despite your…persistence…in following through with this, I still want the record to show I'm against it."
I smiled, wrapping an inky curl around my slender, white finger. "The record has shown, and the record doesn't give a damn."
"Just as long as you know."
Spike pulled at his shoe until it slipped comfortably over his long foot. He would need new shoes soon. He was 27 and still his feet were growing. He would've gotten shoes long ago, the fact that his feet grew did not bother him at all. It was the fact that a good pair could cost as much as 500 wulong that scared him. Why waste so much money on shoes?
"Hullo, Spike!" The fuzzy topped girl with rosy cheeks stood in the door, a dog whining at her feet. "Ein is hungry." She grabbed her stomach and whined. "So is Ed."
Spike sighed with annoyance twining around his deep voice. "Edward, why don't you go bother Jet. He's the one who cooks around here. Or," he added, almost as an afterthought, "Faye. She's the woman. She can get you something to eat."
Ed smiled her crazy little smile. "Nope. Faye's chasing a bounty, and Jet said we are out of food." She bent over and patted Ein atop his chestnut head. "Yes, are we not out of food, Ein?"
Spike muttered, "Damn kid. You talk funny, too." He pulled himself to his feet. "All right, sit down. We'll stop somewhere and find something to eat. If Faye's chasing a bounty, we'll have some money." He looked up as an epiphany struck him. "If she decides to share."
Edward ran by him, arms outward and airplane noises spouting from her throat. Spike sighed and flung himself down on the couch again. Rather than get up and face the noises of a child, he turned on the CTV (Computer Television) and watched as his favorite program began.
"Woooooooooooweeeeeeeee! Welcome to Big Shots, senores and senoras!" A black cowboy with an over exaggerated Mexican accent yelled out, "Today we will look at the meanest cucarachas you can imagine!"
"Oh," exclaimed a high-pitched blonde with near bared breasts, "What kind of cucarachas are you talking about?"
"Well," he answered, "The first is not uno, but dos cucarachas! It is a young woman who is known by the name of Rosary and a man who goes by Dalzell. The woman is 25 years old, has yellow eyes of different colors, and black hair she usually wears up in a bun. She has a tattoo of a rosary upon her right ankle and often hides out in Catholic churches."
"Oh," the blonde yelled in effect, "How awful! That must be how she got the name Rosary!"
"Yeah," Spike commented from the couch as he poured a glass of Jack, "Real perceptive."
"Yes, it is," The black cowboy continued, "And this Dalzell is a fat man with a brown mustache and big, buck teeth. He is balding, in his late 40s, and often wears a toupee."
"So," asked the blonde, "What is the bounty on this dastardly duo?"
"Well, mi amigos, I think you will all be pleasantly surprised. The bounty on these two is great. However, they must be caught alive and together, or else there is nada!"
"Oh, please," the blonde whined, "Just tell us the bounty!"
"Well," he proudly exclaimed, "The bounty is just over 20,000,000 wulong!"
"What?!" A head popped from the hall into the 'living room', not noticing the hanging jaw of Spike. "Did he just say 20,000,000 wulong?!"
Spike set his glass upon the table. "No," he said, a smile beginning to form, "He said 'over' 20,000,000! Can you believe it?" He began to laugh, giggles bursting from his chest.
Jet joined in. "Man, if we catch that pair, we'd be set for life!"
"Yeah, if."
The two turned to see a cross violet-haired vixen in the doorway. Jet let out a whoosh of annoyance while Spike did naught but smiled. She walked into the 'living room', hips turning under her hands. "What makes you two think you're skilled enough to fight these two? Plus, if the bounty is that much, there has to be something dangerous about them. What if they're associated with the Red Dragons? Or with Viscous? Or some other ring-leader we know less about?"
Jet and Spike looked sideways at each other. "Well," Jet said in his deep, calm voice, "If that's the way you feel, 20,000,000 is a lot easier to split between two than it is three." He and Spike walked past her now frozen face. "See ya. Watch Edward."
She turned around, her voice leavened with sugar and honey. "Wait a minute."
Spike turned. "Yes?"
She smiled, seductively curling her crimson lips and pulling a gun from her holster. Cocking it, she said, "If you plan on taking down a woman, you need a woman's help."
I light a cigarette, Marlboro Red, and suck on it with pleasure. My painted lips leave a blood red ring about the filter, and now I think it truly is a Red. The taste is sweeter than anything I ever have placed within the confines of my mouth, and I smile. Dalzell pours a drink into my glass, some exotic wine, but it bumps with the tracks and I am filled with only more distaste for the man. But to fulfill such a dangerous mission on my own would be suicide, so I let him play lapdog to me. I intend to keep him on a very short leash.
"My dear Rosary, can you not hear me?" The fat man looks at me with concern, not realizing that I have been ignoring his every movement, every shift of his jiggling body. I want to turn with contempt, but it would be hard to find a lackey with only days to go. He had been my faithful servant for months, and I still had use for him. Besides, I am not completely without gratitude.
"It must be the wine." He nods and does not sense my growing agitation. I stand, the folds of my crimson dress swaying across the floor. I turn back to him and say, "I am going to bed now. Wake me if there is any trouble." He nods, and I turn, sleep so desperately deserved.
Behind me, I hear Dalzell mutter, "What a lovely woman," but I do not give him any indication that I hear. I just want to sleep.
Quietly now, I slip into the shadows. The darkness envelopes me in a comforting shroud, a shroud fastened by the thread of tears and blood. A shroud of death. My cigarette falls now, as if in slow motion, until it hits the wet cement. I crush it with the heel of my black boots, real nice boots for kicking in the faces of the innocent. That seems to be all I am. The harbinger of ultra-violence, the dispeller of hope and truth. Why do I question my existence? It seems this is all I am meant to be. I do not worry anymore. Just slip, so slowly, into the shadows . . . . But then there is a face. He has two eyes of different colors. One eye sees the past, one eye sees the future….
"Hey, Rosary," The emotionless tone of a fellow soldier stirs me and I turn. It is hard to be a woman in a world of war. Codename: Rosary; I am a woman of beauty and seduction … and death. My kiss is fatal; I am a rattlesnake, ready to pounce. It is a lonely life. But it is a life.
I turn and stare out the train window, burgundy and brown swirling about in the compartment of the Midnight Express. "What is it, Dalzell?" I ask, my yellow eyes staring into my reflection and seeing a pair much like my own.
"Who is this 'Viscous' you want to see so badly? I think it's a bad deal," said a fat man with mo hair and a pencil thin mustache, all the while preparing to light a fat cigar, "Getting mixed up with the Red Dragons is no business for a couple of small fries like us. I have a bad feeling."
My eyes begin to shine, and I turn away from my reflection with mild disgust. "Don't worry, Dalzell, I have experience dealing with the big boys." I smile with false seduction and touch his chin with my gleaming fingernails. In a baby voice, I pinch his cheeks and say, "You'll find these boys are no more than pussy cats." I finish as I lightly slap the round protrusions hanging near his mouth.
He looks at me like an animal and I am disgusted. I never had a stomach, let alone an appetite, for the likes of him. He smiles, his beaver teeth cutting into his bottom lip. "Miss Rosary," he says, a little more familiar than before, " I have nothing but the utmost trust in your judgment. But this 'Viscous' is a shady guy, and he has enemies we know almost nothing about. Despite your…persistence…in following through with this, I still want the record to show I'm against it."
I smiled, wrapping an inky curl around my slender, white finger. "The record has shown, and the record doesn't give a damn."
"Just as long as you know."
Spike pulled at his shoe until it slipped comfortably over his long foot. He would need new shoes soon. He was 27 and still his feet were growing. He would've gotten shoes long ago, the fact that his feet grew did not bother him at all. It was the fact that a good pair could cost as much as 500 wulong that scared him. Why waste so much money on shoes?
"Hullo, Spike!" The fuzzy topped girl with rosy cheeks stood in the door, a dog whining at her feet. "Ein is hungry." She grabbed her stomach and whined. "So is Ed."
Spike sighed with annoyance twining around his deep voice. "Edward, why don't you go bother Jet. He's the one who cooks around here. Or," he added, almost as an afterthought, "Faye. She's the woman. She can get you something to eat."
Ed smiled her crazy little smile. "Nope. Faye's chasing a bounty, and Jet said we are out of food." She bent over and patted Ein atop his chestnut head. "Yes, are we not out of food, Ein?"
Spike muttered, "Damn kid. You talk funny, too." He pulled himself to his feet. "All right, sit down. We'll stop somewhere and find something to eat. If Faye's chasing a bounty, we'll have some money." He looked up as an epiphany struck him. "If she decides to share."
Edward ran by him, arms outward and airplane noises spouting from her throat. Spike sighed and flung himself down on the couch again. Rather than get up and face the noises of a child, he turned on the CTV (Computer Television) and watched as his favorite program began.
"Woooooooooooweeeeeeeee! Welcome to Big Shots, senores and senoras!" A black cowboy with an over exaggerated Mexican accent yelled out, "Today we will look at the meanest cucarachas you can imagine!"
"Oh," exclaimed a high-pitched blonde with near bared breasts, "What kind of cucarachas are you talking about?"
"Well," he answered, "The first is not uno, but dos cucarachas! It is a young woman who is known by the name of Rosary and a man who goes by Dalzell. The woman is 25 years old, has yellow eyes of different colors, and black hair she usually wears up in a bun. She has a tattoo of a rosary upon her right ankle and often hides out in Catholic churches."
"Oh," the blonde yelled in effect, "How awful! That must be how she got the name Rosary!"
"Yeah," Spike commented from the couch as he poured a glass of Jack, "Real perceptive."
"Yes, it is," The black cowboy continued, "And this Dalzell is a fat man with a brown mustache and big, buck teeth. He is balding, in his late 40s, and often wears a toupee."
"So," asked the blonde, "What is the bounty on this dastardly duo?"
"Well, mi amigos, I think you will all be pleasantly surprised. The bounty on these two is great. However, they must be caught alive and together, or else there is nada!"
"Oh, please," the blonde whined, "Just tell us the bounty!"
"Well," he proudly exclaimed, "The bounty is just over 20,000,000 wulong!"
"What?!" A head popped from the hall into the 'living room', not noticing the hanging jaw of Spike. "Did he just say 20,000,000 wulong?!"
Spike set his glass upon the table. "No," he said, a smile beginning to form, "He said 'over' 20,000,000! Can you believe it?" He began to laugh, giggles bursting from his chest.
Jet joined in. "Man, if we catch that pair, we'd be set for life!"
"Yeah, if."
The two turned to see a cross violet-haired vixen in the doorway. Jet let out a whoosh of annoyance while Spike did naught but smiled. She walked into the 'living room', hips turning under her hands. "What makes you two think you're skilled enough to fight these two? Plus, if the bounty is that much, there has to be something dangerous about them. What if they're associated with the Red Dragons? Or with Viscous? Or some other ring-leader we know less about?"
Jet and Spike looked sideways at each other. "Well," Jet said in his deep, calm voice, "If that's the way you feel, 20,000,000 is a lot easier to split between two than it is three." He and Spike walked past her now frozen face. "See ya. Watch Edward."
She turned around, her voice leavened with sugar and honey. "Wait a minute."
Spike turned. "Yes?"
She smiled, seductively curling her crimson lips and pulling a gun from her holster. Cocking it, she said, "If you plan on taking down a woman, you need a woman's help."
I light a cigarette, Marlboro Red, and suck on it with pleasure. My painted lips leave a blood red ring about the filter, and now I think it truly is a Red. The taste is sweeter than anything I ever have placed within the confines of my mouth, and I smile. Dalzell pours a drink into my glass, some exotic wine, but it bumps with the tracks and I am filled with only more distaste for the man. But to fulfill such a dangerous mission on my own would be suicide, so I let him play lapdog to me. I intend to keep him on a very short leash.
"My dear Rosary, can you not hear me?" The fat man looks at me with concern, not realizing that I have been ignoring his every movement, every shift of his jiggling body. I want to turn with contempt, but it would be hard to find a lackey with only days to go. He had been my faithful servant for months, and I still had use for him. Besides, I am not completely without gratitude.
"It must be the wine." He nods and does not sense my growing agitation. I stand, the folds of my crimson dress swaying across the floor. I turn back to him and say, "I am going to bed now. Wake me if there is any trouble." He nods, and I turn, sleep so desperately deserved.
Behind me, I hear Dalzell mutter, "What a lovely woman," but I do not give him any indication that I hear. I just want to sleep.
Quietly now, I slip into the shadows. The darkness envelopes me in a comforting shroud, a shroud fastened by the thread of tears and blood. A shroud of death. My cigarette falls now, as if in slow motion, until it hits the wet cement. I crush it with the heel of my black boots, real nice boots for kicking in the faces of the innocent. That seems to be all I am. The harbinger of ultra-violence, the dispeller of hope and truth. Why do I question my existence? It seems this is all I am meant to be. I do not worry anymore. Just slip, so slowly, into the shadows . . . . But then there is a face. He has two eyes of different colors. One eye sees the past, one eye sees the future….