The pretty boy picked up the pretty clear eyed girl two doors down from the sordid looking bar discotheque, just outside the one direction to the other direction radar sweep of the bored, slightly amphetamined out bouncer, and the street was awash in rivulets of stale alcohol acid smelling urine, spilled wine and abandoned crumpled plastic two litre bottles part filled and abandoned with various different coloured liquids slopping around their insides, broken glass from flung and kicked beer bottles shouts and screams cries and modern electronic discotheque noise throbbed nonstop and the pretty boy looked into the eyes of the pretty girl and gestured with his head to two girls collapsed in the doorstep of number thirty five, one crying her eyes out in empty, almost silent, simpering desperation, nose running, legs outstretched and slightly apart and she’d wet herself plain for all to see, the other sat in a pool of wine coloured vomit, sick in her lap, with her unconscious looking blood drained head empty on her companions left shoulder, her palms outstretched at her sides a bit like a drug addict pleading for a stronger dose, for just any kind of dose at all.
“¡No puedo hacer nada! ¡No sé qué hacer con ellas!” Said the pretty girl with a sixties fringe of shiny light brown hair, wisps before and over her ears and a pony tail right at the back of her head, ¡No sé qué hacer!” she repeated as she gestured in turn at her two best friends and looked back into the pretty boy's dark brown eyes. “Quince años, y míralas....no sé qué hacer....”
“Vamos a ver, a ver....venga,” and he handed her a plastic bottle of mineral water, “¡Toma, toma!”
So The Pretty Girl did, she twisted the blue plastic cap on the little clear plastic bottle and heard the clear, clean sounding clicks as the cap broke free of the blue plastic seal, and she took a long, clean, cool, truly satisfying drink and the pretty boy put his arm round her slim waist, and they stood for what seemed to her to be a long while looking into each other's eyes, then back at the desperately sad looking best friends, then, she, into his eyes, his handsome face. She smiled. She had a brace on her upper teeth, but this instrument of torture, it only made everything else about her lips and face seem so much more attractive.
Then he grinned at her, left her and walked the three meters over to the doorway of number thirty five. He stood over the two girls, at a slight angle so that The Pretty Girl could see clearly what he was about to do, but the bouncer couldn’t, and then undid his jeans, lowered his fashionable, fake, stained white Calvin Klein underwear, took his penis in his right hand and urinated a stream of rich yellow coloured piss all over the sad looking best friends in the doorway, in their hair, in their faces, over their slightly over exposed breasts, a stream that, to The Pretty Girl, seemed to last forever. There was simply no reaction, then, perhaps, just a little flicker of their eyelids, a slight refocusing, whereupon he snorted several times and spat some slime on them both, just for good measure.
“¡Un regalo de navidad, lluvia dorada!” He spoke back to her over his right shoulder, as he put himself away and then retraced his steps back to her and put his arm back round her precious waist. “¡Feliz año Nuevo!”
The Pretty Girl’s wide eyes and slightly open mouth registered a certain shock she couldn’t seem to react to, and she was having difficulty catching her breath, which excited Pretty Boy, but he’d been told to leave well alone, or else no wages, or else....“Se te ha caído esto, querida....¡Cógelo, venga.....cógelo!” And he gently folded her cold and slightly trembling fingers round the inhaler. “Pareces necesitarlo....venga....” So, guiding her with his arm, he led her off down the narrow street, away from her best friends, away from her past....“Respira hondo....respira hondo....”
Pretty Boy came around to visit "El Castillo" in the afternoon for his pay, but what was due to him was to be his worst ever nightmare and his worst ever and final nightmare started with the large glass of whisky he’d been poured.
“Hey, there, come on now! Eh? There’s plenty of bait around not to need to be worried about conservation efforts, and the boy is exceedingly pretty, even if he is a little old at twenty and an ignorant, nasty piece of work, traitor to their cause to boot, just no style at all,” chuckled The Born Again Priest to the head of the Pick Up Squad, “oh no, no! No, not the girl, she’s a perk of the job don’t you know Inspector! Just leave her down there on the floor in The Stone Room, but cut off all those nylon restraints before you take your leave will you? Ok?”
“Understood, sir. Snap to it, lads!”
In The Stone Room The Born Again Priest had The Pretty Girl bare, nude, except for a pair of pretty white cotton Dusen knickers. Made in Spain. She was laid on top of him, on his chest, his left leg between hers in the middle of a king sized double bed covered in a suave black rubber sheet. His left hand hovered over and on the smooth silky skin of the left cheek of her bottom, under the stretched pretty white cotton, a finger on the fine indented rosy line between her upper leg and cheek where the elastic edge with its silver trim would normally lay and, as she slowly regained a semblance of consciousness from the quite hefty dose of floozy solution Pretty Boy had injected into her water, she began to move slightly, to tremble smooth and soft and so young and cool over his withered, naked body, a fringe of hair tickling on his jawbone, her pony tail gently brushing the blotched, loose, leathery skin of his left shoulder.
She opened her perfectly pretty eyes, her pretty eyelashes fluttered slightly, and The Born Again Priest caressed her nose with the middle finger of his right hand, neatly manicured but unmistakably claw like. He prayed constant gravelly sounding words in a mixture of English and shaky Spanish into her delicate little pierced ear. He saw fear grow in her sweet blue green eyes and savoured what he saw and savoured the feeling of blood beating in his veins, in his temples, but he felt it in his stomach most of all.
He had no erection. It would take a lot more than this to tease those twisted, swollen blue veins, that gristle, into a flaccid shape no way reminiscent of youth, but it would come, and he saw that The Pretty Girl was dribbling from the corner of her lips, and the spittle was sticky warm, then cool in the roots of the sparse white hairs on his scrawny chest and her sweet jaw moved slightly in a fruitless effort to articulate a sound and there were silent tears welling in her pretty pleading eyes and he luxuriated in her helpless panic.
Decisions had been taken in Parliament by the International Court of the Alliance of Civilizations, The Alliance of Civilizations, Department of Culture Equalization, under the watchful, domed eye of Miguel Barceló’s ocean, decisions that pleased The Born Again Priest no end, decisions that made him feel all warm and itchy inside, itchy for action, itchy for control, itchy for power.
“¡Está bien nena, muy bien, calma! ¡No ha acorrido nada! Floozy I call it, but no one else does! It’s a personal joke! You’re no floozy, calma, eres una belleza, preciosa, but your best friends are! Both of them ugly, cheap, dirty stupid floozies! You’re smart, I’ve read the reports! Floozy, you kids take it for fun in your discotheque clubs, but me, I order its use for far higher and mightier reasons, Rohypnol, flunitrazepam, black market of course, no dye in the solution so you never saw it coming, big dose too! Calma, calma, there there....but I have no use for anterorgrade amnesia because, we'll be seeing....tranquila, calma, the first week of January in together, nena....Oh, no no no....tranquila, calma, calma nena tranquila! Because, you know what? The real entertainment, tranquila....will only start when you’re wide awake! Happy?....There, there! It's all going to be alright....Happy new year, baby!"
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