Take Out

Whirr, click. The bedside alarm clock now read 3:53am. In another fifty-nine seconds it would flip the little card that was now a three to a four. Another minute wasted. The oppressive heat made clothing unbearable, so I lay there, the sweat damp white sheets crumpled around my naked body. The stale odor of smoke, sweat, and sex permeated the very walls of the small room. A small fan in the corner blew the hot air from one corner of the room to the other with no respite from the heat. My naked sweat slicked skin gleam a dull red from the neon sign that hung from the building across the street. It advertised either Ming’s Chinese takeout or Min’s depending on whether the g was working or not. I didn’t eat there and never would. The smell alone from that place was enough to make me gag, which is incentive to keep my windows closed.

The droning sound the small fan made couldn’t cover up the chainsaw like snores from the John I’d just finished with. Nothing special to look at while awake, but at least he’d showered before showing up at my door. These days I was grateful for the small things that went ok in my life. Cleanliness is one of the few things that are still important to me. I reached over to the scarred bedside table and grabbed a smoke from the crumpled pack that lay next Mr. Unconscious’s wallet. The smell of butane as I flicked open the lighter and that first inhalation were sublime. I sometimes think the very first drag is why I smoke at all.

I slid my foot under the sheet and kicked at the John’s leg to see if he was well and truly out of it. I’d slipped him enough valium to kill a dog, but a girl’s got to be sure. No movement and after a minor interruption the snoring continued. Well, it wouldn’t be long. I took a long drag off the smoke and leaned over to stamp it out in the ashtray on the table. I wanted a shower but that luxury would have to wait until I was done.

Hopping out of bed I went over to the one chair in the room where the John’s clothes were piled. Going through his pockets was unpleasant at best. I respected privacy, well, mine anyway. This was a necessity. A pack of gum, pocket knife, and tin of breath mints is all I could dredge up. It’s a good thing no kissing is my number one rule. The second bonus was no badge. My last John had been a cop and I was grateful he’d kept his dirty habit a secret. The detectives still hadn’t come knocking on my door.

I grabbed the phone off the table and dialed Ming’s or Min’s, I didn’t look out the window to see which it was tonight, and told them I wanted the standard takeout. I flipped open the John’s wallet, pulled all the cash out and tossed it in the drawer. Out of the same drawer I pulled an eight inch chrome vibrator, and turned back to my John. I grabbed his oiled hair and raised his head off the bed and moved him so his head and neck were over the metal bowl on the floor. I flipped the switch on the vibrator and a six inch blade whipped out of it’s chrome skin.

Holding his head back as far as I could, I gently slid the blade into his jugular. So easy, I twisted the knife for maximum blood flow and slid it out with a soft sigh. He never even twitched. I had perfected my art over the last six years and it was beautiful.

Right on time there was a soft knocking at the door followed by the sound of light feet coming down the hall. I turned, still naked, and let go of the John’s hair.
“He’s all yours, boys.” I couldn’t help the husky texture to my voice. Years of smoking will do that to a girl.

I grabbed another smoke out of the pack and lit it, inhaling deeply, sublimely content. I watched them go to work on my anonymous john, cutting him up into manageable pieces as my smoke filled the hazy room. They were neat, meticulous even, even better than me with their blades, and they were done in a few minutes. They packed up the pieces and left me as quickly as they had come, back to their kitchens to feed the Chinese food lovers that continually packed the place. I was happy, or what passes for happy with me. I was sated.

I blew out the last drag from my smoke and headed to the bathroom with the bowl. I have my blood, my money, and my smokes. I have my vices, or my vices have me. Either way, life is good.

Take Out

whiterussian

Phoenix, United States

  • Artist
    Notes

Artist's Description

It’s all about the vices.

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