So, here’s how it’s going to go: I’m going to edit this throughout the week until we have a complete story. You’ll likely read some of the same stuff, but, I’d like to spend some of my time sharpening points and making things work a bit more in my mind. This is the second edit and yes, there is more plot added, not just me editing and adding cruft.
I will also warn that this is VERY NSFW. Read it away from work, if you’re apt to get in trouble for things of this nature.
The voice behind him was almost ethereal, as if a whisper on the wind. He almost didn’t stop but, he had to. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as the voice spoke again.
“Boy, get in the truck,” it said, again. He turned to see what he’d assumed to be a girl of no more than twelve, if not for the lithe curve of her hip, bisected by the impossibly large shotgun she held, her clothes tattered remains of what were once a tank top and pants.. He smiled as he turned around to face her fully.
“Well, lookie what we got here,” he said, spitting in the dirt in front of him. “Girl, shouldn’t you be home, waitin’ for yer paw?” She wanted to shoot him in the face, immediately, but gave a half-smile.
“I’m not going to ask you again. Get in the truck,” she spoke calmly, her voice steely but quiet.
He laughed this time, putting his hands through his hair, reaching for the .38 he kept in a neck holster. In the Wastes, you needed to be careful, or else you’d be dead. He studied her; her posture gave her away as a terrible shooter, her knees knocked inward toward her pidgeon toes. The gun wavered back and forth as she held it in his direction more like a guitar than a gun, belying her nervousness. He took a tentative step forward, his hands in the air, forgetting about the gun for a moment.
“C’mon now, sweetheart. Hand Big Ol’ Jim that Thunderstick. I’d hate t’have t’hurtcha.” His crooked teeth looked sharp, as his grin twisted into something more sinister. With a name like Big Ol’ Jim, one would expect to stand six feet or more, or weigh somewhere in the neighborhood of an astronomical or impossible number. At five-eight in boots and a buck-oh-eight without ‘em, Big Ol’ Jim was far from an imposing figure, his pock marked face and slight lisp adding to his less-than-threatening stature.
“Shut up and get in the truck,” she spoke again, correcting her stance and shouldering the shotgun with a wry smile.
“Girl, I done tole you. Gimme the gun, so’s you don’t getcha self hurt.” Jim raised his voice as she raised the shotgun. He considered a step forward, and then thought better of it as she drew the boomstick down toward his precious bits. He swallowed hard as his smile disappeared. “What I gotta get t’th’truck fer?” he said, nervously, his Hillfolk accent coming out even bigger’n ‘fore.
“I wanna fuck,” she said, matter of factly, lowering her weapon. “And then afterward, I want to talk to you about the Free Society.”
Jim chuckled, feeling relieved. “Shoot,” he replied, exaggerating the ‘ooh’ sound for a moment longer than needed. “Ya’ll had me petrified that ya’ll was gunna pull that trigger.”
“The only trigger I’m interested in is the one I’m about to cock. If’n you get my drift.”
“Daaaamn, girl. You sure talk dirty,” Big Ol’ Jim replied. “I get your drift. Front seat or, should I be gentleman-like and take ya t’bed?”
“Doesn’t matter, friend. I’m not much of a lady anymore.”
Big Ol’ Jim had his druthers and walked around to the back of the dilapidated truck, hopping into the bed as he lowered his pants, revealing why he was – in fact – Big Ol’ Jim. He grinned and blushed at the same time as the stranger looked at it, a bit taken aback by the sight of it. “Now, don’t you worry nothin’. I’ll take good care of ya. But, first, tell me yer name.”
“Okay, yes. Tell me your real name, if’n y’want ta.”
Big Ol’ Jim wasn’t as much for brains as he was down below. He didn’t quite get it either time, until the girl shrugged. “My name is Truly. Truly Golightly.”
“Well, y’don’t gotta tell me yereal name if’n y’don’t want ta. ‘M okay wittit. Why don’tcha get on up here in the truck’n lemme show ya’ good time.”
The girl (who looked no more than fifteen in the face, despite a lifetime of scars, burns and other assorted forgotten, repressed memories covering her body) went back to her pigeon-toed, knock-kneed stance, her finger pulling a few ethereal strands of hair behind her ear. Despite her forward demeanor, she came off innocent and pure, looking at Big Ol’ Jim out of the tops of her eyes, through her wispy eyebrows. “I dunno,” she replied, her voice trailing off as her cheeks flushed.
“C’mon, girl. You get’n this truck, I’ma tell you all’bout the Free Society,” he promised. Had there been someone to kill, Big Ol’ Jim’d done did it ‘fore the voice finished outta the pretty little mouth the girl had. He fell in love with ruby red lips, swingin’ hips, and a shotgun totin’ momma he’d never laid eyes on before. His angry appendage swelled greater, angrier and redder as he waited with anticipation.
Truly took a step, grabbing the bottom of her tank top and pulling upward, slightly. “I wanna know something now. Like, where’s Ezekiel?”
“Who? I ain’t tryna think’bout a dude, honey.”
“Ezekiel. You know him, if you know anything about the Free Society, Big Ol’ Jim,” she replied, taking another step toward the truck, her emphatic emphasis on the word Jim, surprisingly.
“Pff,” Big Ol’ Jim replied, “Ezekiel ain’t shit. That’s what people who ain’t Free Society think. That Ezekiel is the dude who’ll getcha’ll in. He ain’t nothin’ but a slave trader, turnin’ in slaves that won’t work for him. People talk to Zeke, and they tend to disappear. You want Ferocious Sanders, baby. Otherwise, you gunna get s’more a’them scars on thet pretty lil’body you got there. ”
Her arms, stomach and legs were riddled with scars, telltale signs of an escaped slave. Those in the Free Society had people to do everything for them, and were easily identified this way. Big Ol’ Jim was scar free, aside from a few old bullet wounds he’d likely chalk up to bein’ nothin’ more than friends bein’ friends and what not. Truly, wasn’t so lucky. Her back was criss-crossed with scars from straps, and internally she was scarred sometime around seven or eight. She didn’t think about it. Didn’t remember it. Didn’t want to.
And yet, there was a radiance about her. As if each scar didn’t exist. That her face, one of the more beautiful that Big Ol’ Jim had seen outside of one of the books inside the Forbidden Library, still bore a glimmer of hope in a hopeless time was more than most folks could fathom and made her easier to get close to. People wanted to be with her, to be near her, to hear her and see her and touch her. They wanted to care about her, and quickly did. Just like Big Ol’ Jim.
Truly Golightly took another step, perilously close to the bed of the truck, her hand touching Big Ol’ Jim’s calf. Jim’s joy made him angrier, redder and strained for Truly’s touch. Her hand drifted higher, up to the knee and to the mid thigh. Big Ol’ Jim looked at Truly Golightly and his face was that of pure delight.
“Do you know Ferocious Sanders?” she asked, her northerly movement slowed for a moment as she looked into his eyes. Big Ol’ Jim’s face implored — no, begged, pleaded mercy to end his affliction and give him what he needed — her to keep moving as he shook his head.
“No, but, I know a guy who knows his cousin’s friend, Anthony,” he replied as Truly’s mouth curled upward in a wry smile. She reached out and took hold of her prize, sinking her face forward. Big Ol’ Jim threw his head back, and scooted forward each millisecond taking what seemed like hours to pass.
He looked to the skies waiting for his salvation, her salivation, their mutual satisfaction. Truly backed off and pumped her shotgun. The blast echoed through the wasted Earth, catching Big Ol’ Jim square in the chest. He looked down for a moment, and then to Truly. Her face showed no emotion as he watched the barrel move higher. He couldn’t breathe, his lungs filling with blood from the first shot, his body unable to react as from the abyss inside the barrel of the shotgun, bore forward, and a three inch slug buried itself somewhere in the vincinity of his occular cavity as his body slammed backward. He never felt the bullet or the injury afterward.
“Then what the fuck am I doing wasting my time with you then?” she asked no one in particular, her once ethereal, barely there voice now unmistakably baritone and brash. She tore through Big Ol’ Jim’s pockets, finding the keys to the truck, and a few dollars. There was another key, but, it seemed of no importance to her.
His body twitched in death, scaring her a little, making the confident girl jump backward in fear, thinking that he could come back for her, someday. Somehow. Somewhere.
Just like they had.