Kristen Miranda’s legs felt like they had blocks of cement
tied to them. Running for that long in knee-high leather boots would do that to
a skinny girl like her. The boots were a nice compliment to her black hoodie,
black Pantera halter top, and black mini skirt with fishnet stockings. The
mascara would have been a nice touch if she hadn’t spent the last hour with
tears streaking down her innocent face. Her makeup looked messier than an oil
spill in the Gulf of Mexico . Her black
lipstick dried out from all of the huffing and puffing she did.
Kristen wondered exactly how long she had been running away
from home. She could still feel the sting of her parents grabbing her arms
tightly as they argued relentlessly. What the hell were they fighting about?
Did it matter? She was finally free in the outskirts of Paulson City
Most of these trench-coat and newspaper wearing folk were
already asleep by the time Kristen reached the encampment (out of sheer luck).
Their machinegun snores filled the air as did their whiskey burps and
green-clouded farts. Kristen held her nose while gently treading across the
garbage can fires. She rubbed her sore arms vigorously as if that would stop
the chill.
She spotted an unattended dumpster fire next to a chain link
fence and rushed over to hold her hands to the flames. Chills of warmth and
sadness surged through her body. How would she survive out here on the streets?
She only had a pocketful of one dollar bills and some spare quarters. There was
a donut shop around the corner from here, but a Bavarian cream-filled pastry
would only last her for so long. She sighed as her stomach rumbled like
grinding machinery.
The gothic teen snapped out of her trance and gasped deeply
when she felt a hand even stronger than her parents grab her by the arm. The
strength at which this man squeezed was reminiscent of a blood pressure cuff
and left purple impressions on her bicep. Kristen gazed at this man in
wide-eyed horror while weakly trying to pull away from his grasp. Like the
other hobos, he had a filthy gray trench coat, little underneath, and newspaper
shoes. Why he was wearing a demonic clown mask with horns and a rainbow wig was
a mystery in and of itself.
“Shouldn’t you be at home playing with Barbies and blowing
your boyfriend?” asked the clown in a gravelly voice. “This is not your
territory, bitch. This place ain’t no rave party.”
“P…please, sir!” stuttered Kristen. “I don’t have anywhere
else to go! I just need a place to sleep tonight and then I’ll leave, I
promise!”
“Sleep? You want a place to sleep?!” grimaced the clown,
sending tremors throughout his victim’s body. “I wish I had a place to sleep
other than this dumpster fire. I used to have a nice warm bed with lots to eat
and a woman to snuggle with. And then do you know what happened?” With teary
eyes, Kristen shook her head. “The bitch took it all from me!” shouted the
clown, prompting even more tears from the teenaged girl. “In fact, you kind of
look like her with those pretty brown eyes and black sexy hair.” The clown took
a big sniff of Kristen’s hair. “Yeah, she used that same shampoo. Oh, I’m going
to have some serious fun with you tonight!”
Kristen slapped the clown with her free hand, but it barely
fazed him and only put an evil grin on his face. The clown grabbed the teen by
her throat and bull rushed her against the chain link face. She tried to yell,
but only gagging sounds and red spit came out. The clown quickly cuffed her
hands to the fence and shoved a ball gag in her mouth the shape of a
cheeseburger. While the teen moaned through her gag, the clown said, “You want
to eat so badly? Choke on that, you slutty bitch!”
The clown’s ghostly laughter was silenced by an
Indian-accent shouting, “Hey, Crackers!” The teen and her captor stared
saucer-eyed at a hobo with torn sweat pants, newspaper shoes, and a dirty white
turban, who could be seen carrying a wooden plank wrapped in razor wire. “That
girl doesn’t belong to you!” he said. “You owe me for that box of donuts I gave
you! If anybody’s taking that bitch’s cherry, it’s me!”
Kristen screamed through her foul-tasting gag and prompted
Crackers to yell, “Shut up!” and slap her across the face. Tears flooded from
Kristen’s eyes and burned the now open wound.
Crackers folded his arms and said to his rival, “Samir, I
don’t owe you a goddamn thing. If you didn’t give me that box of donuts, I
would have smashed your fucking face in and taken them from you. Are you new to
this shit or something? You know how this works!”
“You better hand over that hot piece of ass or I’m shoving
this plank up yours!” threatened Samir while he held his weapon high in the
air.
“Oh, you want to go? You want to do this right now? Let’s
go, bitch!” shouted Crackers as he threw his trench coat down and revealed
bloody polka dot pants underneath.
Kristen watched the fight unfold with a sore jaw, sore
cheeks, a whimpering voice, and hazy eyes. For every fist Crackers threw, for
every swing of Samir’s plank, the gothic teen struggled in vain to jerk herself
free from the handcuffs. The two combatants’ attacks missed wildly due to their
initial drunkenness, but Samir was finally able to bury his plank into
Crackers’ thigh, earning a wild scream from both him and Kristen in the
process.
Despite the bleeding, Crackers yanked the 2 X 4 out of his
leg and broke it over his good knee, earning more cuts in the process (he was
too drunk to care). He then threw rapid fire punches Samir’s way and ended up
punching the cage and various dumpster fires as he missed. Samir picked up a
trash can lid off the ground and smashed it across Crackers’ face. The demonic
clown no-sold that blow and head butted the Indian for his efforts, knocking
the turban off his greasy scalp and sending him crashing to the ground.
Kristen continued to struggle and scream while Crackers hoisted
Samir up by his neck and attempted to throw him into a nearby dumpster fire.
The Indian braced himself by shoving against the metal structure with his feet.
Just when he was getting forced closer to the flame, he reached down for
another wooden plank, lit it on fire, and smashed it across Crackers’ face.
Once again, the clown no-sold the offence despite the ashes forming on his
cheeks.
With a wicked smile on his face, Crackers grabbed Samir by
the armpits and tossed him against the chain link fence. The clown then grinded
the Indian’s face against the wire and opened some massive cuts, even managing
to pop one of his eyeballs and break some of the fencing.
Seeing how easily the fence broke under Crackers’ violent
force gave Kristen the confidence to struggle harder. This time she pressed
against the cage using her boots and grinded her metal studs across the wire.
She even used the studs on her novelty gag to shred the wires even more.
Every time she saw Samir’s blood fly across the cage,
Kristen missed her family more and more. Her parents could be a pain in the
ass, but they were nowhere close to being as violent or psychotic as these two
street warriors. How she longed for the taste of mother’s cooking. How she
loved bullshitting with her father about classic rock bands they both loved.
How she missed petting her dog across the back and feeling fluff and love. Each
of these images and more fueled her passionate struggle against the fence. She
heard a wire snap and struggled harder. She heard another one snap. And
another. And another.
Her efforts were halted by Crackers grabbing her hair and
yanking her head backwards. As Kristen breathed heavily through her nose, the
clown said, “Nobody’s coming to save you, you dumb bitch! Not your parents, not
the police, not even nacho nuts over there!”
Despite looking like a cross between a horror movie victim
and a slaughterhouse cow with his splattered blood and popped eyeball, Samir
managed to pick up a piece of broken razor wire and slam it against Crackers’
wrist (the rapid bleeding took away some of his equilibrium). This time
Crackers sold it like a champ since his wound was juicier than a spilled soda
truck.
What Samir unwittingly did in the process was slash the
chain on Kristen’s handcuffs and allow her to jerk free from the cage. With
nothing but adrenaline and a tearful love for her family, Kristen unfastened
her cuffs and cheeseburger gag before bolting out of the hobo hideout with
demonic swearing behind her. She didn’t care if running away from home made her
exhausted. Running back home was sure to put her in a coma, but she ignored her
burning pain and sprinted like a motherfucker.
Her legs felt like liquid shit. Her face felt like gonorrhea
piss. Her ribs felt more crushed than Samir’s bloody eye. Yet she ran screaming
and never looked back. She didn’t care about being covered in darkness. She
didn’t care about the red sky polluted with industrial filth. She cared less
about the car pulling up to her on the street potentially being filled with bad
guys. She threw the back door open and leapt inside while screaming, “Go, go,
go!” The car pulled away in a big fucking hurry, leaving skid marks underneath
its tires.
Despite having gelatinous green fluid in her nose from
crying so much, Kristen detected the familiar scents of a pine tree air
freshener and old leather seats. She was in her parents’ car. They actually
went out to find her. While Mr. Miranda was busy speeding away from the scene,
Mrs. Miranda reached behind her shotgun seat and hugged her daughter tightly
while showering her with kisses. “Don’t ever run away from us again, Kristen!
We love you! We love you forever!”
“I love you too, Mom!” sobbed Kristen. While she and her mom
continued hugging it out, Mr. Miranda turned on the radio and played “Pigs On
the Wing” by Pink Floyd, a love song with no hint of shallowness or perversion.
Oh, how good it felt to hear “old people music” again. Kristen couldn’t help
but smile through her tears at the sound of such a familiar tune. She was
finally going home to a warm bed that didn’t feel anything remotely like a
dumpster fire. Crackers and Samir could bleed each other dry for all she cared.
It was over now. It was all over.
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