17,000 words | Crime/Fem. Manifesto (novella)
Synopsis: Billy, a Marine sniper who never speaks, sees his girl Sunny in a porno movie and shoots himself in the foot to get stateside and find her. He journeys to LA to find Sunny where he befriends Krystal, a street prostitute, from Kentucky.
Billy lays face-first on the bed. Krystal sews stitches in his back. She pulls a stitch tight, high on coke, jittery.
“Sorry.”
He shows no pain.
“You’re lucky. I was good at sewing back in Crooked Branch, Kentucky. You shoulda seen the quilts I made when I was a girl. All hillbilly girls are good at sewing. Sewing and having babies. That’s about all they teach you in the hills, but I guess you already know that, don’t you. There you go.”
She finishes up.
“You find her?”
He pulls the video box with Sunny’s photo on it out of his pants. Krystal studies it.
“This kind of packaging means they probably signed her. They almost signed me.”
He shakes his head, not understanding.
“You know, a contract. Kind of like the Marines. They own your ass. You can’t make movies for nobody but them. They started to sign me. First they gave me a name—The Kentucky Gangbang Queen. All I did was make gangbang movies. I did thirty guys one time. Called it Kentucky Fried Dickin’. You know, like the Colonel except I was stuffin’ cock down my throat instead of fried chicken and mashed potatoes and cornbread. It’s on the internet if you wanna watch it. Actually, it’s one of my better movies if you want to know the truth about it.”
He shakes his head.
“Don’t judge me. I did it for the same reason you went into the Marines. Money.”
He turns away.
“Or maybe you just like killing people. Maybe I just like fucking thirty guys at a time. Anyhow, I went AWOL on those creeps. I decided to try and make some more dough and went to work for this sleaze bag over in North Hollywood. Said they could get me into the real movie business. All I had to do was fuck this actor. You probably seen him on TV. He’s got that show with the perfect wife and all. Name’s Danny Dillon. Fucker.”
She turns the TV on.
“So this guy set it all up that I’d, you know, make it with Danny Dillon. We met at this fancy hotel in Beverly Hills and I went up to his room. It was really nice. He ordered room service then drinks and then that’s when it happened.”
She goes silent. He looks at her. She has a tear in her eye.
“I don’t want to talk about it. I heard he tried it with other girls. I hope that mutherfucker rots in hell.”
She kisses him.
“On the house—”
He shakes his head.
“What’s wrong with you? You don’t talk, you don’t want to screw? Never met a soldier like you. I get top dollar for this ass. Top dollar! Better than all the pussy in Bangkok or so I’ve been told by those who have been there. Marines, sailors, air force. You ever been? You don't look like the Bangkok type. That's mostly older men that can't get no trim stateside, even if they paying--limp dicks that like to watch women fuck dogs. I ain’t never fucked a dog even though I have been propositioned. A limp dick, of course. Hollywood bigshot. ”
He hands her back her clothes.
“That thirty-guy thing bothering you? I’m gonna help you find her, okay?”
Later, Billy and Krystal watch TV. Billy is drawing something with a brown crayon.
“What’s the most ice cream you ever ate?”
He shrugs, engrossed in his drawing.
“What’re you drawing?”
She grabs it. It’s a simple child-like drawing: a house with a chimney, a sun, and green grass. She hands the drawing back to him.
“Rembrandt ain’t got to worry. You should try watercolors.”
She flips the channel and Danny Dillon’s show comes on. It’s called “Life With Dan.”
“That’s him. Danny Dillon.”
On the TV, Danny Dillon is doing the usual sit-com pratfalls.
“Fucker—”
Krystal makes a gun with her finger, cocks it, and shoots at the Danny Dillon.
“I wish I had a shotgun. I’d shoot the TV.”