Read Online Beach Blanket Bloodbath (Amanda Feral Book 4) by Mark Henry - Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Henry
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stopped, flicked over to his
large clock face on the phone. 9:30, it read. “If you floor it, we’ll be able
to catch the last hour of pageantry!”
I didn’t have to be told twice. I stepped
on the gas and the tires ate into the concrete, rocketing the little Volvo SUV
forward into the night.
“This is going to be amazing and
ludicrous. I can't believe our luck.”
“You three are disgusting,” Abuelita
sneered, the mole on her upper lip connecting with her nostril. “Making fun of
those poor girls.”
“Making fun?” I feigned shock. “We’re
going to scout out food options, or in this case…snacks.”
“You just ate, I can smell it on you.”
Gil nodded. “Smells like hippie and
shame.”
I sniffed and looked at Wendy, whose nose
was equally scrunched in offense. “I don't smell anything, except my Issey
Miyake.”
“Well,” Gil said.
“Well what?” Wendy spun.
“You two must have picked a couple of
stinkers. They hadn't seen a bar of soap in days, weeks maybe. I could smell
them a mile away. And I'm guessing at least one was an adolescent boy so it
goes without saying that his hygiene was already suspect.”
I tried not to think about the dreadlock
I'd freed from my throat. “Whatever, Gil.”
Ahead of them a banner stretched across
the two-lane highway that announced they'd arrived in Las Felicitas and none
too soon as the revelry was already underway. Bunting clung to every black wrought-iron
rail and window sash like icing on the Spanish themed town. Tents lined the
sidewalks crammed with whatever crap people could carve out of driftwood and
those little clay pots with cork stoppers that proclaimed Bingo Money and
Divorce Money and Hooker Money—I made that last one up, obviously. Any
prostitute worth her salt will gut a john that paid in nickels.
I slowed to a stop in the alley across
from the Felicity Theater in all its Mission-styled glory. Stucco walls soared
to a pitch of red tiles and the wooden doors appeared to be absolutely ancient,
studded with black bolts and bands of rusted metal.
The whole town reminded me of Balboa Park
in San Diego, but this old world Mexico was polished to a proud shine by Disney
Imagineers and not migrant farm workers.
“A quarter 'til. We’re going to make it.”
I tapped the Volvo's clock and grinned. “See how I made that shit happen?”
But I was talking to myself as Wendy and
Gil had already bolted from the car and were crossing the median before I could
give Abuelita a final glowering gaze and follow.
A light mist cooled the night air and
carried on it a salty aroma, more than the sea could manage, as though I’d
nestled up against a sweaty scrotum. Scott used to roll in from the gym
completely coated in the same damp smell and try to embrace me, or worse, coax me
into unnatural acts, meaning anything that involved sweaty man parts bouncing
around the vicinity of my nose and mouth. So, no.
Just no.
By the time I launched myself toward the
crosswalk, the only person on the street was a surly looking youth wearing a
flat-brimmed cap with a huge blunt tucked under his ear and jeans so saggy he
was lucky to have the arms of a homunculus to fit his hands in the pockets.
I dug in my Birkin for my lipstick, which
always seemed to migrate to the bottom with the change. By the time I'd
reapplied, blotted and glanced back at the boy, his hand had already clamped on
the Birkin’s strap.
And then it was torn away from me,
flopping against the kid’s back as he inexplicably ran with the crotch of his
jeans binding his knees together. I had to resist the urge to charge at the
little G, feel the weight of my lower jaw drop into my cleavage and tear at the
back of his neck until he collapsed, paralyzed.
First
impressions and all.
What if
someone were to see me? That would have really fucked up my cabbage patch for
the signing. And, to be honest, I wasn't terribly hungry—don't get me
wrong, I could eat, but my skirt would probably rip apart like
large clock face on the phone. 9:30, it read. “If you floor it, we’ll be able
to catch the last hour of pageantry!”
I didn’t have to be told twice. I stepped
on the gas and the tires ate into the concrete, rocketing the little Volvo SUV
forward into the night.
“This is going to be amazing and
ludicrous. I can't believe our luck.”
“You three are disgusting,” Abuelita
sneered, the mole on her upper lip connecting with her nostril. “Making fun of
those poor girls.”
“Making fun?” I feigned shock. “We’re
going to scout out food options, or in this case…snacks.”
“You just ate, I can smell it on you.”
Gil nodded. “Smells like hippie and
shame.”
I sniffed and looked at Wendy, whose nose
was equally scrunched in offense. “I don't smell anything, except my Issey
Miyake.”
“Well,” Gil said.
“Well what?” Wendy spun.
“You two must have picked a couple of
stinkers. They hadn't seen a bar of soap in days, weeks maybe. I could smell
them a mile away. And I'm guessing at least one was an adolescent boy so it
goes without saying that his hygiene was already suspect.”
I tried not to think about the dreadlock
I'd freed from my throat. “Whatever, Gil.”
Ahead of them a banner stretched across
the two-lane highway that announced they'd arrived in Las Felicitas and none
too soon as the revelry was already underway. Bunting clung to every black wrought-iron
rail and window sash like icing on the Spanish themed town. Tents lined the
sidewalks crammed with whatever crap people could carve out of driftwood and
those little clay pots with cork stoppers that proclaimed Bingo Money and
Divorce Money and Hooker Money—I made that last one up, obviously. Any
prostitute worth her salt will gut a john that paid in nickels.
I slowed to a stop in the alley across
from the Felicity Theater in all its Mission-styled glory. Stucco walls soared
to a pitch of red tiles and the wooden doors appeared to be absolutely ancient,
studded with black bolts and bands of rusted metal.
The whole town reminded me of Balboa Park
in San Diego, but this old world Mexico was polished to a proud shine by Disney
Imagineers and not migrant farm workers.
“A quarter 'til. We’re going to make it.”
I tapped the Volvo's clock and grinned. “See how I made that shit happen?”
But I was talking to myself as Wendy and
Gil had already bolted from the car and were crossing the median before I could
give Abuelita a final glowering gaze and follow.
A light mist cooled the night air and
carried on it a salty aroma, more than the sea could manage, as though I’d
nestled up against a sweaty scrotum. Scott used to roll in from the gym
completely coated in the same damp smell and try to embrace me, or worse, coax me
into unnatural acts, meaning anything that involved sweaty man parts bouncing
around the vicinity of my nose and mouth. So, no.
Just no.
By the time I launched myself toward the
crosswalk, the only person on the street was a surly looking youth wearing a
flat-brimmed cap with a huge blunt tucked under his ear and jeans so saggy he
was lucky to have the arms of a homunculus to fit his hands in the pockets.
I dug in my Birkin for my lipstick, which
always seemed to migrate to the bottom with the change. By the time I'd
reapplied, blotted and glanced back at the boy, his hand had already clamped on
the Birkin’s strap.
And then it was torn away from me,
flopping against the kid’s back as he inexplicably ran with the crotch of his
jeans binding his knees together. I had to resist the urge to charge at the
little G, feel the weight of my lower jaw drop into my cleavage and tear at the
back of his neck until he collapsed, paralyzed.
First
impressions and all.
What if
someone were to see me? That would have really fucked up my cabbage patch for
the signing. And, to be honest, I wasn't terribly hungry—don't get me
wrong, I could eat, but my skirt would probably rip apart like
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