Read Online The White Flamingo by James A. Newman - Free Book Online

drank the rest of the beer. He walked back into the bathroom and put on his hat and beard. His disguise. The streets were full of freaks. What difference did one more make? He picked up the satchel and swung it over his shoulder. He opened the apartment door and walked back onto the street. Outside, the sun was setting as he walked toward beach road. Lady-boys and freelancers hovered around like vultures; hyenas waiting for the kill.
    B each Road.
    Paving slabs, three steps down to the sands where the hookers hooked. He st ruck a deal with a ladyboy who told him she was from some nowhere town in the North. She liked boys and she liked money. Lived with a bargirl and the Killer could watch them for the price of a picnic. The sun was setting slowly over the sea. Blood-shot clouds. An airplane flew across the sky. He negotiated a price of twenty dollars for oriental oral. It would have been a generous fee if he had intended to pay it. She agreed with an exhalation of tired spent air and a flick of the head. She walked down with him to the beach. He sat down behind a tide wall. He looked at her.
    Did she remember him?
    Probably not.
    The thing with sleeping with lady-boys , was in the morning, they smelled like men. Yes, he had made that mistake a few times and this was one of them.
    It was over two years ago and it had been dark that night. He had been drunk and she had been out of it on some kind of amphetamine come down. The smell of sweat and perfume in the morning. A crash eased with barbiturates and alcohol. Had she been the one that had given it to him? Out of the five, he guessed she had been the second most likely. She had the sickness. That much was sure. What was the cure to the sickness? There was no cure. There was no way to tell they had it either. Apart from one little, human attribute.
    Instinct.
    She wouldn’t remember. How many others had she seen since then? Plus the disguise. He was a different man tonight. Her chin was large and pointed. Eyes glazed over with barbiturates. She was one of the many beach urchins, the strays, the hideous creatures that strode along the beach road with their exaggerated feminine swagger. Their private dicks strapped up like concealed weapons. Shots of hormones in the ass and padded bras, padded panties. They were mostly criminals too, known to drug and rob the customer that was foolish enough to take one of them to their hotel room. The transsexual was muttering something about an operation. Yes, an operation. That was what was needed. To have it cut off. The Killer had the very surgical instrument in his satchel. It wouldn’t be long. She would be changed.
    The operation would be hers.
    Goodbye chick dick. 
    They sat down on the beach. He undid his pants and she bent over and began to work at it. She sucked without conviction or distaste. A rapid mechanical motion that bored the Killer. There was no real difference to having a woman or a man do it. Some said the lady-boys were better. The Killer assumed this was just an excuse. A way to justify their sick cravings. He opened the bag and took out the knife. He looked around. There were no other hookers or customers around. She worked greedily on his erection. She had developed a technique that produced the result with the least amount of effort. This was not the prelude to a relationship. No eye contact. No words spoken. Just a mechanical lever bobbing up and down at an increased rate until delivery was acquired. She sucked at it.
    She really sucked. 
    “Now, about that operation,” he said as he held her head back by the hair. He was about to come. He withdrew her mouth from his cock. She saw the blade. A flash of metal as he cut the jugular with one swift movement. Blood sprayed across the sand. His own fluid spurted. Landed on her cheek. Her eyes danced. She couldn’t scream. Her voice history. It was hopeless for her. He held her back by the hair as he zipped up his trousers. Now it was time for the operation. He