Josephine The Outlaw King, A Royal, Gothic Tale of a Pinup done wrong

85: Bloom and Born

Happens to everyone. The line is crossed. Something in the wiring sparks and there's a lot of bad that gets out.

Josephine ran. She ran for her head. She cleared everything out that happened at school, home, work.

She was 16 and she ran every night.

She knew her neighborhoods.

Like a working class cartographer, she knew this place neat and well, as if she'd drawn it herself maybe on the blistered palms of her tiny, white hands. That way she'd never get lost.

She took her alley route that night. Her alley led all the way to the foothills back down to the Stater Bros. strip mall.

She always ended up back there, behind the grocery.

She never met a sole wandering and she never expected to.

He came out the back of a huge diesel trailer. He grabbed her fast and threw her in, slammed the trailer door down fast.

Before the flat black landed she saw the cop flashlight in the corner of the cargo. Long and heavy, thick bumped metal. Unlit but useful.

He said stuff, stuff she didn't want to hear, things she knew he meant.

He was going to take her and he was going to kill her afterward.

She remained still.

She remained calm in the fearstorm that swirled inside her belly.

He jerked her around, ripped her shirt and pulled down her running shorts.

She stayed scared and still. Not frozen. Still.

He turned her face into his and said her big eyes might save her but he doubted it.

She barely heard that.

He stretched her arm down to the ground and made sure her tangled body followed.

Josephine bloomed.

Her hand snatched it. And quick, quicker than his cowardly snatch.

She felt lucky and she felt hot blood in her face.

She moved like it was planned inside her skin a long time ago. Like she was tapping into a lesson she didn't ever mean to have use for. It was another algebra.

Bloom. Rise and bloom, Josephine.

She swung and struck something hard on him. She figured everything was hard on him. And she swung again. It piled him up against the aluminum and she sprang for the latch that she could only guess was somewhere on the bottom of the slam she'd heard.

He stacked himself up again and of course he lunged. She'd found the latch and tiny hands came in handy. The slit was now a gape and she reeled her arm with the steel heavy and again hit something hard but more staggering.

He fell back this time.

She jumped through the lifted thing, pulled up the terry cloth shorts and ran.

She ran so fast.

She ran without knowing her feet were doing the right thing.

The alley was 4 miles of left, right, left.

She covered the first in what seemed like lightening time.

Then the run became a slowed, purposeful jog. Then a stomp. An angry pound that comes from being too scared, too fast.

Good and bloomed.

She'd just learned too fast that the line can be crossed by anyone at any time. Let's face it, once you step over the mark and survive it's cause and losses, you'll probably be tempted to try it again. And again.

It's a new place you can go, a new site on your map.

Birth. She was born into her standing now, giving her life away to what, she didn't have a damn clue but her breath and beat most certainly didn't belong to her anymore.

As she marched up the alley she looked straight ahead. She knew the nooks, she knew the shallow dips and folds of it. She knew now that there was harm in the cracks and every moment held an unrealized threat.

Dodge and duck and come out okay. Is that the new goal?

She'd popped the can, the anger fizzed, the temper was bigger than her whole self.

The stomp grew harder and thumped a mad rhythm.

She saw a figure just to her left. She knew the silhouette of a bum, she knew the smell of someone who just has to give up. She knew he was now a threat.

Born fully now.

He said something, a mumble, she heard "Little girl, shouldn't be out this late". Threat.

Her brow straightened above her big eyes as he blocked her new swagger.

He was dirty of course. He was a little drunk, yeah. Old as her uncle. Thirty. Dirty thirty.

Pitchfork stabbed halo and the tiny white hand shot straight out to the front of his throat.

A little crack, a gurgle and a heartfelt, hard as she could squeeze.

Pressing back, fingers to palm, try and make a fist around his pinched and cracked pipe.

Down he went and her grip did not fail.

Crumpled. Dumped down and out. She cast her gaze on his face and felt the nothing you feel while your temper's so new and so fresh.

Her face softened. She cocked her head to see if she'd ended him completely She now used her new walk to take her home.

She'd crossed her line.

Her cities were bigger now and her world was ripped open past the paper she'd drawn from her Sears furnished room in suburbia.

Josephine, bloomed and born.

84: Nola, nice, new, sharp and clean

Cortez the Killer.

Well that just didn't seem to fit him now. Nola looked down at him, crouching close to see if any in and out, up and down still existed in him. Nope.

He was done.

The blade slid like a hot ice skate across his spiny neck. It didn't hesitate at all. Nice and new and sharp. Forgiving one might say. Whiskey quick, it was. The cut that was supposed to be hers. At least it was clean.

He had started a whiny protest.

Nola just didn't have those kind of listens in her ears anymore. They were plum filled with apologies. Over the rim with threats. Her shells just couldn't take the harsh frequencies.

To her surprise she had become deaf to that particular song. Come and remorse, come and remorse. God, she was just so sick of that disjointed melody. Finally, the dirge was done.

His eyes were still open and they were brown like the rest of him, she could see that now.

At first they had looked black and blank. Now they were just brown and empty. No ritual spin of desire danced behind them anymore. It was very nice.

She remembered Josephine. She turned to find she had slipped out just as quiet as she had sunk in.

Baby Dagger knocked and entered.

Let's clean it up. I'll take care of the heap, you take the floors.

She'd never been happier to tidy up and she'd never felt so clean.

Josephine went to bed and layed on top of the covers. It was a warm night and she didn't feel like undressing. Everything was getting too naked....

83: Nola’s Deep and Straight Notes

Nola’s voice was different. It was deeper and a bit louder. Not childlike anymore. She’d never used these notes before. A brand new song she was singing.

Josephine noticed it right away and her heart beat slower. She stood fast and solid behind her but the need wasn’t as urgent.

Nola got taller all of the sudden. She was straight. It made her even more beautiful. Some kinda shine, Josephine thought, some kinda bright shine you got there, Nolita.

Pray to me, she repeated.

He was puzzled but didn’t let his confusion stop him from clapping his shaking flippers together in a catholic clam. He even managed a catechism bow of the head.

What did you pray for? That I’d spare your remaining days? That I wouldn’t make the slitting and slice hurt too much? What?

He wanted to answer but knew there wasn’t a word invented that would do the trick, that would change this new woman’s mind.

She wasn’t Nolita the Damaged anymore. She was Nola. Nola the Courageous, Nola the Soft Strong Lovely, Nola.......the Woman.

And this Monster was going to have a new name, too.

82: Nolita the Quiet

Nola was very quiet now. Yep, Nolita needed none of the words, screams, pleading paragraphs that she had tried on all the other monsters.

All she needed was silence. His silence.

She flipped so fast he didn’t see the flash of her eyes or even feel her relieving him of his blade.

Josephine stood ready and actually, quite willing. Her heart bounced in her ribs. This was not her monster. She had to keep saying that over and over in her head.

Cortez fell on his knee and beautiful Nolita brought him to the other. A precious kneel, finally.

She looked down and made a familiar head tilt. Just like mama, Josephine mused.

Must be a woman

He saw the razor now in her hands. He felt fear and pride replacing power and lust. That weird urge of a yearning thing he got. He wasn’t hard anymore, either.

He used begging talk that Nolita once used. He lied that he was just going to scare her, that this was his particular get off.

He looked very small. He looked scared. He looked very cheap. Like tarnished, loose change. A discarded heap.

How many before me, boy? Nola didn’t need an actual number, just a shaky, telling response would do.

His answer made her ice clear. He needed this.

He meant her end. She was not a stupid whore. A whore, yeah, but not a stupid one.

Pray to me, boy, pray to me...

81: Nola Giggled

She couldn’t help it. She tried to breath in deep, to let it out slow but it just didn’t work. It never did.

It was that smell, the pomade, Tres Flores that Cortez dragged across his pomp.

It was the way he stood above her. He was just like her Tio Tony, the uncle that took her when she was 6, the first of that side of the family to try a bit.

She’d cried the first dozen times and then it was just well, funny to the fading Nolita. So hilarious that she was left with him over and over. Ridiculously hysterical that nobody noticed she was paler than before. She wasn’t their little girl anymore. She was something else in-between that’s never supposed to exist. A lost little creature.

She became ticklish. That scent, that hair grease always got to her. It made her shift inside the rags her mother hastily laid out for her before she left for work each morning at four a.m.

The same one’s Nola washed thoroughly after his "visit" before her mother returned at eleven each night.

She giggled again.

It was a familiar thing that almost gave her a comfort. It did something else to Nolita, too, something she’d never experienced nor expected.

It made her tall.

Her spine straightened lifting those curves like a forklift.

Cortez was furious! She dared to laugh at him! She was going to pay and pay more than anyone has ever paid. That laugh was going to be very expensive for Nola.

She got the bill, she knew the cost. She wasn’t frightened, it was the damndest thing. She was euphoric.

Josephine did an inside shiver and made ready. She saw the lift of the lovely Bride in the chair and she knew the smack of the snicker would send him over.

And she knew something else: This was Nola’s battle. Her fight and hers alone. It was decades old and it was a beaten and bruised baby that needed to finally swing back.

Win or win, she knew the war.

80: Cortez the Killer

His name was Cortez. Cortez the Killer. That’s what he called himself right before he dropped his head down onto his dirty, feather pillow. Cortez the Killer. He liked the sound of it.

It clicked off his tongue and gave his surname some rhyme and reason.

He’d say it over and over as he gripped a small, black barber comb and slicked his greasy pomp into a perfect Billy.

He’d say, Cortez, Cortez the Killer and he’d cock his head and grin bright white chicklets.

He liked razors against throats. It was silver quick and the blood seemed slow. It was more brutal. Clean and almighty.

All his shows revealed it to be true. It looked just perfect. The woman would slump into his arms and finally be silent and soft. She’d say nothing as he undraped her. She’d never protest his fondle, she’d never scream. She’d never flick his hand away, either. She couldn’t.

The first one was a blunder, a thunderous mess. A mistake. She was bought and paid for and she was more nothing than anyone he’d ever met. Perfect for practice. Be proud, the first of a famous killer. For I am Cortez. Cortez the Killer.

She wasn’t beautiful and that’s why it didn’t work. And the blade, well maybe it wasn’t new enough. It dragged across her neck. It didn’t slide and slip away. It sputtered and made ugly triangle digs. He just left her laying in her own rent-a-bed and he spat on her, too. She ruined everything. Can’t expect a man to get hard for that, can you?

The second one was met with a sharper blade and a higher bill was paid for her so she was okay. Not ideal, not pin up perfect. The blade was new. It slid right across, from ear to ear but he didn’t go deep enough and she began the death shake right in his arms. How dare she. It frightened him, he didn’t know the mechanics of these bodies. He finished himself off in her though. He was getting better. He felt pride in the improvement of his skill in such a short time.

Now for Nola.

She was a Pin Up like all of his fathers old magazines. She was beautiful and quite willing to go with such an obvious danger man. That threw him a bit but she looked so perfect with her fullest of fullness, curves with huge ins and even bigger outs, he could overlook her suicide tilt and wilt.

He had the speech all ready, he had the talk. He had the clothes and the smell.

He had found The Lost Chambers by eavesdropping on two men talking outside the casino where he worked. At first he didn’t believe such a place existed.

The fabled road the blowhards filled their brag bag with took him right there. It was almost too easy. It was meant to be, he just knew it.

They were all lined up and all of them one hundred percent as they should be. Like a garden seeded with all of his favorite blooms in all of his very favorite colors. Flowering pure sin and sorrow all over the place.

Let me introduce myself, Nola. I’m Cortez. Cortez the Killer...

80: Cortez the Killer

His name was Cortez. Cortez the Killer. That’s what he called himself right before he dropped his head down onto his dirty, feather pillow. Cortez the Killer. He liked the sound of it.

It clicked off his tongue and gave his surname some rhyme and reason.

He’d say it over and over as he gripped a small, black barber comb and slicked his greasy pomp into a perfect Billy.

He’d say, Cortez, Cortez the Killer and he’d cock his head and grin bright white chicklets.

He liked razors against throats. It was silver quick and the blood seemed slow. It was more brutal. Clean and almighty.

All his shows revealed it to be true. It looked just perfect. The woman would slump into his arms and finally be silent and soft. She’d say nothing as he undraped her. She’d never protest his fondle, she’d never scream. She’d never flick his hand away, either. She couldn’t.

The first one was a blunder, a thunderous mess. A mistake. She was bought and paid for and she was more nothing than anyone he’d ever met. Perfect for practice. Be proud, the first of a famous killer. For I am Cortez. Cortez the Killer.

She wasn’t beautiful and that’s why it didn’t work. And the blade, well maybe it wasn’t new enough. It dragged across her neck. It didn’t slide and slip away. It sputtered and made ugly triangle digs. He just left her laying in her own rent-a-bed and he spat on her, too. She ruined everything. Can’t expect a man to get hard for that, can you?

The second one was met with a sharper blade and a higher bill was paid for her so she was okay. Not ideal, not pin up perfect. The blade was new. It slid right across, from ear to ear but he didn’t go deep enough and she began the death shake right in his arms. How dare she. It frightened him, he didn’t know the mechanics of these bodies. He finished himself off in her though. He was getting better. He felt pride in the improvement of his skill in such a short time.

Now for Nola.

She was a Pin Up like all of his fathers old magazines. She was beautiful and quite willing to go with such an obvious danger man. That threw him a bit but she looked so perfect with her fullest of fullness, curves with huge ins and even bigger outs, he could overlook her suicide tilt and wilt.

He had the speech all ready, he had the talk. He had the clothes and the smell.

He had found The Lost Chambers by eavesdropping on two men talking outside the casino where he worked. At first he didn’t believe such a place existed.

The fabled road the blowhards filled their brag bag with took him right there. It was almost too easy. It was meant to be, he just knew it.

They were all lined up and all of them one hundred percent as they should be. Like a garden seeded with all of his favorite blooms in all of his very favorite colors. Flowering pure sin and sorrow all over the place.

Let me introduce myself, Nola. I’m Cortez. Cortez the Killer...

79: You’ll get no boo, no hiss from the King

Josephine was watching alright but you’ll get no applause from the King. You’ll get no boo or hiss, no reprimand.

What you will get is something she was beginning to get used to giving. A gift she liked to present. That wasn’t good. She’d have to remember why she slipped in that room. It wasn’t to save herself and Baby Dagger from the sticky cleaning of a sharp edged mess. It was to do what she was meant to do, that’s all.

When it’s simple it just is.

He asked something out of a bad movie. Did you come to witness my deed? Do you like to watch, Josephine?

Did he just call her by her name? Did he just

let the same nine letters, the one’s the Saint used to whisper in her ear, did he let them actually drip from his ridiculous mouth?

She felt her temper heat up and she scolded it back down, deep into her chest.

It can’t come up now. It can’t ruin this. She couldn’t afford the luxury of her own release. No King could.

She took a very careful step forward. It made no stomp or click. It just set her ahead there a bit. A little lighter in the face she looked now.

But she was black, wasn’t she. She was serious. She was furious and she was patient.

She watched all points that needed to be watched at once. It was a royal talent, it was.

He cocked his head again. You’re quite pretty, you know. You may need what Nola needs. He jerked her hair trying to show strength, courage, what?

It only showed that hair being pulled back exposed a lovely tawny neck that wouldn’t be opened tonight. Nope, not tonight fool.

Still no voice spilled itself from her throat. She was still.

He started to get angry as man-children do. So a Mama stance was in order.

Josephine unfolded. She inhaled slightly and she expanded.

He said what he meant to do out loud and gave a reason.

His reason was the same as any try-too-hard.

It was boring and tedious.

It was not even his, it was somebody else’s speech, Josephine was sure of that.

Stolen from an angsty slasher thing or some independent story found in a dustbin.

She didn’t care and she didn’t want to listen anymore...

78: Rattling brainbone of a successful fool

He shut up. Finally, fuck. Why do they talk so much anyway?

Josephine knew his blade was closer to Nola than hers to him. She knew what a great distance that was.

She said nothing. That’s what more people should do, they should just say nothing. In general, ya know.

He didn’t lurch or slip. He thought the smirk was for him and he didn’t notice the mocking grin on Nola. He had his audience, ah, he was feeling bloodrush from the filth of his toes to his simple brainbone.
Like a rock it was.

He just wanted someone to see him.
Even in the dark...

77: Bashing and thrashing about ...his brainbone in there

She didn’t like the feeling, the face, the fake power of him. She didn’t like that 9 minutes had past and nothing rocked, nothing rolled or rang out.
She tapped her leather wrapped ankle beneath her worn out boot cuts. Right there, the shiny little sharp thing.

She slid it out and up and it’s tiny "sneet" made her tall.
She didn’t bounce or swagger. No, this hall’s journey was almost a kitten slither. She stuck to the wall and listened all the way to the door. She could make her breathing disappear and that’s just what she did now.

He was turning towards Nola and she still had the faulty blindfold on. The slit only let her see what he was going to do to her moments too late. It was weird, but Nola somehow knew, ya know? She knew this could be her inevitable ending to a story nobody wanted to hear anyway.
But somebody waited for Nola. Two girls and a boy slept with her mother while she worked for the home they lay in.

He was still talking in that rehearsed whisper whisper. It was a doubley bad play he was putting on.

Nola noticed something else: she had stopped listening. Had she given up on what she was to her babies? When you’re this, you’re nothing. But when they look up at you, to you with familial eyes, you’re so...so something.
You’re Mama. You are Mama.

He lunged with a razor, almost twirling around her grabbing her snow white hair, pulling her head towards her latte spine. She woke up. She didn’t scream. Nope. Nola, she growled. She didn’t even know she could but there it was buzzing in her stretched out throat.
Her hands were still tied. Her legs were bound as well. He was till talking, talking, talking, low and hysterical now.

Josephine clicked the door handle and slipped in, closing it behind her. She was in front of Nola, in front of him, this lazy amateur, this wanna-be vampire villain of some sort. This successful fool.

Nola stopped growling and let it stretch to her lovely grin. Even in the dark Josephine could see it and that red rimmed grin was returned with Josephine’s twin crimson smirk.

It was starting to feel good in this room.