Thursday, September 29, 2022

Overheard at Booth 4: Notes for "Mags"

[end of book one]

two shots.  one, then two.

a dog barks in the distance.

Mags slumps against the blue metal dumpster.

man stuffs the gun back into his belt and says, "fucking stupid slutwhore cunt" and turns to walk away.

"Hey, fucker!" Mags says, hand to her side, blood spilling from between her fingers, "I'm not stupid!"

MAGS! MAGS!  are you OK? 

"What an asshole," Mags says.

MAGS! Stay with me!

"ass ... hole" and suddenly it is very cold.

[that's where book one ends]

[book two]


I awake in a hospital room and the first thing I notice is that my right wrist is handcuffed to the bed, because I want to scratch my eye because it itches and suddenly I'm jerking this clanging metal against metal, so I scratch with my left hand because that one is still free.

Light is coming through the window and it's hella bright.  Can somebody shut the curtains or something? and I don't know for a second or two if I'm speaking that or just thinking that, but it seems like someone heard me because there is someone at my side now, can't really focus on the form but it has that feeling of a female body, the fleshly belly pressing close against me, there is a warmth to the female body, especially those who've had children recently, it's very, very comforting.

But this person isn't saying anything, aren't they supposed to ask me how I'm feeling or hold up fingers or something like that, but the voice I hear now is someone behind them, "Do you know your name?" it says, and yeah, it's a woman, but it's obvious that she hasn't had any kids ... or else she drowned them in some fucking river or something.

"What?" I say.  Gee. That's a brilliant comeback.

"Do you know your name?" it asks again, and then it, steps to the side of the comforting belly (which I will now say is the nurse) and holy shit, yeah, it's a cop.  Definitely a cop.

"Yes I know my name," I say.

"What is it?"

"Don't you already know?"

A man behind her says, "She might still be under."

"I'm not a hundred about that."  Then, to me again, "Please tell us your name."

"Charlotte," I say.  "Charlotte the harlot.  Like the Iron Maiden song."

Then, finally, someone draws a curtain ...


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