The words over at Three Word Wednesday are frantic, lurch and odor.
The taxi lurches to a halt in front of the Excelsior and from it unfolds three Sisters from the eastside, biggest motherfucking trannies you ever saw. One’s carrying a length of lead pipe and a knock-off Gucci clutch for lipstick and rubbers.
This may be the ass-end of the city, where steamy piles of trash smolder with rot and the downcast follow cracks in the concrete with their eyes, but God bless the Sisters.
Nothing escapes their network. One distress call from a mobile cut short by hard slaps and screams and they’re on the case.
Working girls arrive at the Excelsior on wobbly fuck-me pumps, black stiletto thigh-high boots, shared taxis. They enter single file, slowly fill the lobby in orderly rows. Many won’t even get within a whiff of the action, but in numbers lie their strength.
Nobody fucks with the Sisters.
They’re up on three and they’ve paid for the room for the entire evening. They’ve also paid off the night clerk, sent him off with a five crisp $20s and instructions to eat a long, slow breakfast.
They were going to be busy. For hours.
He’s got the smell of shit and piss about him, his bowls long since vacated. But it’s the odor of fear that wrinkles the nose.
Both eyes are puffy from the beatings. They’ve got him on his knees, his arms held behind him with a length of barbed wire. Where in the fuck did they get that?
They’ve stripped him down to his expensive boxer briefs. Fresh blood runs from his nose, across his lips, where frantic breaths and spittle turn the gore into pinkish bubbles.
He’s long since tried to reason his way out of this one. Cash wasn’t going to solve the problem, either.
He’s a future missing persons report.
The crowd parts and the Sister who was wronged enters the gloom set off by the crowd, the single bare bulb. They’ve already staunched the blood, tended to her wounds, sewed up the ragged flesh where he’d bit her.
She puts a hand under his chin, raises his face to hers.
He begins to gag.
She asks if he believes in God. He says nothing above a whimper.
She removes the .45 from his mouth.
“God,” she says. “Do you believe?”