1980 - U.V. RAY
Jackie had now saved the populace of 32 planets from nuclear attack.
“There was another girl in that film, a sister. Tits like melons.” Jackie shouted over from the other side of the room, not shifting his eyes from the screen.
“Man, sometimes you can just be in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Dixie Wilson said, pouring himself a stiff whiskey from his crystal decanter. He banged it back, and sat down in the chair grimacing. “Or sometimes you can get yourself into something you just can’t get out of. Christ knows what she’d gotten herself into.” He folded the newspaper and tossed it on the sofa beside him.
She’d been discovered by a farmer. Shot in the back, straight through the heart. No exit wound. The bullet bounced around the inside of her ribcage, ripping her innards up. She left a pretty corpse. Killed somewhere else and then driven and dumped in a ditch edging the farmer’s field. They’d arrested some fucker, some skag-dealing fucking loser. But that was all irrelevant really. It didn’t change anything.
Carmen Eske was an actress. Well, nothing more than a hopeful, in all honesty. She had done a B-movie horror flick directed by Dixie called Blood House a couple of years ago, about a necrophiliac who worked in the morgue. Of course, for most of the movie Carmen Eske played a corpse. But she had her moment to shine when the corpses came back to life to exact their revenge.
Carmen was a nice girl, only twenty years old at the time of filming. Above all, Dixie hired her because she was rather wasted-looking, translucent and cadaverous but pretty at the same time. In reality, she seemed a little bit lost, vulnerable. Dixie remembered feeling quite fatherly towards her.
“Life imitates art.” Wilson shook his head as he took another hit of whiskey. “But there’ll be no coming back this time.”
“What a waste of a great little pair of tits,” shouted Jackie. “For a Pink, that is.” Jackie, known as Black Jack to his friends, called white girls pinks. He puckered up his lips and made a sucking sound. “Little titty ra-ra’s - ripe as cherries, nipples like chapel hat pegs, know what ‘am sayin’?”
“Jack,” Dixie didn’t even grant him the courtesy of looking in his direction, “shut the fuck up.”
Black Jack shrugged and went back to playing Missile Command on the Atari console.
BIO: U.V. Ray: writer, drinker, womaniser extra-ordinaire, swindler par-excellence, liar, cheat and all round filthy rotten miscreant. Find out more at U.V. Ray’s official website.
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