Conversations in the Day
When Dominique took those personality quizzes where one of the questions would ask, 'if you were stranded on an island and could only have three items, what would it be?', and she'd answer 'lip balm, brush, and mascara', she wasn't aware of life's twisted sense of humor. As she holds her lip balm, brush, and broken tube of mascara, she can feel herself shaking her head at the pure irony of it all. Even though she's at the mercy of unforgiving lands and violent natives, she can at least count on her hair looking lush and her lips forever moisturized and soft.
"Brighten up, Princess. Put that shit away and get to work."
Mentally rolling her eyes, she places the items on the ground and grabs the fresh bowl of shaving cream she made.
A pirate sits in the chair, the bandana secured on his face, his hair wild and in desperate need for moisturizer. She doesn't bother asking him to take off the bandana; many of them are adamant about not revealing their face, despite the pragmatism of no one even knowing their names or remembering what they look like.
"What would you like?" she begins.
"Trim the hair, fade out the sideburns."
She wants to tell him that it requires electronic razors to do such a request but says nothing.
"Lie back."
He does, the bandana's tip being pushed away so it won't interfere with the man's breathing. She takes a strand of hair and slices it with ease. She repeats the action until the hair has been cut close to the scalp. She runs her fingers over the small peek of hair that lies over the bandana. She does her best and holds up the mirror.
The pirate gives a gruff nod and leaves without so much as a thank you.
"You're welcome," she calls out bitterly; she can't believe how rude some of these people are.
She sweeps up the hair and discards it into the trash bin she made out of an old barrel she found. After checking to see if she has any…clients to grace her doors, she makes her way to the entrance and sit out on the stoop, the warm breeze blowing through her hair.
"Hey, Princess!"
She looks up. The leader of the crew stands behind her, gun in his hand and a wicked smile on his face.
"Is this a fucking vacation resort to you? A break time where you look out into the ocean like a fucking white girl? This isn't time to ponder about whether you'll wear pink or blue nail polish. Get off your ass and make yourself useful. Before I change my mind about letting you live."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Fuck if I know. My room needs a little cleaning. A womanly touch. Make it look nice when I get back, yeah? And go find the Cook and help her prepare something for my men when you're done."
"Okay Mister…?"
"Mister!" he barks with a laugh, "I'm not that much older than you yet you call me Mister! I should have you call me Master, but that would be awkward. So I guess you'll call me Vaas. Vaas Montenegro, the king of this fucking island. Shall you kiss my pinky ring?"
He holds up his dirtied, bandaged, finger out to Dominique's lips.
"Kiss it," he orders.
Swallowing her disgust, her lips grace the bandage.
"Alright! Away with you! I got people to see, assholes to torture and kill, places to go, fuck-ups to handle. Ta-ta, bye-bye."
Vaas makes a kissy face and jogs off into the distance.
"Wait! Where is your room?" Dominique hollers after him, but he's far from ear shot.
"Some help you are, asshole," she mutters under her breath.
She scans her surroundings, and frowns. This place is littered with foliage, pirates, and desperation. She debates whether to ask one of them where Vaas sleeps, but decides against it. He may be crazy, but he's not stupid; if he's the head honcho of the island, he wouldn't be dumb enough to just let anyone know where he rests his head. And besides, none of these pirates seem trustworthy, especially with the very distinct male to female ratio.
She's stuck: if she doesn't get help finding the place, she wouldn't clean this man's room and last thing she needs is a bullet in the ass for getting lost. If she asks for help, there's a chance of her getting raped and possibly killed. Let's see: rape and murder, high chance of being mauled to death by a wild animal in a forest should she get lost. Decisions, decisions…
"Dominique!"
She turns around. There, in the flesh, is Anika: dirty, sweaty, and elated. She runs and hugs her, her dreadlocks smelling faintly of gunpowder and alcohol.
"I'm so glad you're alive! I haven't seen you in forever!"
"It's been at least 48 hours."
"Time moves slower when you're forced into putting your medical skills to use."
"Where's Carmen and Mike?"
"Carmen is with a Rakyat in the forest finding spices and Mike is tending to a child 3 miles from here. She's coming down from a fever and there's a chance she won't make it."
"Oh. That sounds…nice?"
"What have you been doing?"
"Cutting pirates' hair."
"Sounds cool. Saw what you did with the leader. You shaved off 10 years."
"Thank you."
"So, I heard you needed help around the island. You know where to go?"
"I need to go to Vaas'…room. Wherever that is. And then I need to help Carmen in the kitchen."
"Vaas…? He's uh…he lives in…follow me."
Anika walks into the abyss of the forest, with Dominique trailing after.
The trees gave way to a village that lies below an old, well-preserved temple, surrounded by foliage and strange men in tattoos.
"He lives in the temple with the remaining members of the Rakyat. They said a foreigner came and killed the previous leader and caused the deaths of thousands. They're still reeling from the effects. It helps if you don't come off…too American."
Rolling her eyes, she makes her way to the Rakyat. They immediately point their spears at her; she holds her hands up in response.
"Um…Excuse me? Sirs? I need to go to Vaas' room for some…housekeeping? If I don't clean his room and help get dinner started by the time he gets back, I think you know what's going to happen to me and I want to live."
The Rakyat look at each other, and with a grunt, they let her gain passage.
"Fifth room, front and center." She begins her trek, but feels a spear poke into her back,
"No weapons. That includes the razor blade."
She forgot she even had it.
"Sorry. Here." She hands it to one of them with a thin smile. A Rakyat tails behind her, his expression unwavering.
"Fargo will guide you to Vaas' room. He'll make sure you won't wander off into the wrong room. Some of them…are booby-trapped."
She gulps.
"Thanks for the heads up."
He grunts.
Finding Vaas' room was a lot easier than expected; from the littered corpses of pirates and the empty bottles of cheap liquor scattered all over the ground, it revealed a room that oozed violence, drugs, and the beginning signs of psychosis. The place was a mess: broken furniture, blood smears on the walls, guns and knives carelessly placed everywhere, bullets and bullet-holes decorating the shelves. The only unscathed dresser has missing drawers and the top of it is littered with cocaine, marijuana, and a small pouch of smack. The saving grace was the bed, but it was filled with paper and junk she couldn't tell whether to keep or to trash. She swipes it off the bed and sees a porno magazine with a few pages stuck together and she gags in disgust; she pinches the book's edge with her thumb and index and throws it across the room.
She's going to have her hands full.
Dominique collapses on her hands and knees, panting heavily and oozing sweat through her Spanx and denim dress.
Against all odds, that nightmare has been thoroughly cleaned with a rag, some alcohol, and her bare hands. Bed is made, weapons carefully placed on the dresser in orderly fashion, paper and 'reading material' have been stacked up nice and neat on one of the shelves. The dresser has been untouched for the most part; last thing she needs is a contact high or to be killed if Vaas gets paranoid and assumes she's been dipping in his supply.
Giving one last look of it, she's satisfied. She stands up and is about to leave when the bed caught her eye; underneath the bed, there was a corner of paper sticking out. Curious, she picked it up.
It's a photo of a boy and a girl, no younger than seven, smiling their brightest smiles while holding mangoes. They look like brother and sister; their eye color matches and the way they stand so close to each other is another tell, despite their varied skin color. The boy, with his curly black hair almost covering his eyes, standing tall and barefoot, wearing a dirty red t-shirt and weathered cargo shorts, contrasting with his slightly darker-skinned sibling with a wild bush of hair forced into two pigtails, wearing a t-shirt two sizes too big, her tiny feet poking out through the fabric. On the back, in crude handwriting, are the words 'Happier Times, 1992'.
Her fingers skim over the girl, and then the boy, mesmerized by how sweet he looks. He looked like the one who would open doors for ladies, say please and thank you, would reward good behavior with hugs and toothy smiles.
What happened to that little boy?
Pushing the thoughts away, she tucks the photo back under his bed and makes her way out of the temple with Fargo trailing after.
She needs to help make dinner before King Asshole comes back.