Yellow Mama E zine

Soft and Comforting

by Zachary Wilhide

 

          “So, Bobby says you needed to see me.” Holsinger cupped a cigar into the fat maw of his hands.  The light from his butane lighter caught his face and gave him a devilish glow.  He sat in a tattered recliner in the back of his dirty Winnebago like a white trash video game boss. He was shirtless.  Clad only in gray sweatpants barnacled with fast food stains. Bobby stood to his left. In the cramped space, the poor man was bent at the neck like a flexible drinking straw. The only light came from the combination of a TV set beside him and two weak bulbs hanging behind the chair. They cast everything in a murky blue darkness.   The whole space smelled like stale smoke, body odor, and rancid cheese. 

         Clint paused, unprepared for the pressure of the cloying rottenness.

         “Yeah…I…uh…I need a gun.”

         “Do you love me?” Serena flashed moist brown eyes at him. 

         “I…think so,” Clint said.

         Her lips pursed into a pout.  “You can’t hesitate like that, baby.  It makes me worry that our relationship isn’t… special.”

         “Yes.  I love you.” He corrected.

          “Good, baby.” She motioned for him to come closer with a French-manicured fingertip.  “You’d do anything for me…right?”

          “I…guess.  I mean, I mean…yes.”

         Holsinger puffed quietly on the cigar, one eye-brow tilted up in appraisal.  He blew out a cumulus cloud of smoke. “See…thing is…shit, how old are you boy?  You look like you’re late for homeroom or something.” He looked at Bobby and the two men chuckled.

         “I’m…uh…19,” Clint replied.

          Holsinger’s eyes squinted and he shifted his ass on the ratty throne releasing more foulness.  Clint’s eyes watered and he choked back vomit.  “Alright…let’s say I hook you up, what’ll it get me?”  

           Clint reached into his pocket.  His sweaty hand grasped the wad of small bills from Serena. “I…uh...can pay you.”

         “You have a stuttering problem, boy?”

         “N—No…just nervous. Someone’s been messing with my girl…and…I need to…need to make him stop.”

         “You’d do anything for me, right?”

         “I don’t know.”

          “You sure, baby?”  She removed her top, revealing the large tanned breasts that had made her a featured attraction at the Club. “You wouldn’t want to see anybody hurt me, would you?”   She leaned back on the bed, sensuously crossing her legs and arching her back to fully display her endowment.

          “No.” He vigorously shook his head.  “I would never let anyone hurt you.”

Bobby leaned in and whispered something into the big man’s ear.  He pursed his lips and nodded. 

           A vulgar smile appeared on the fat man’s face.  “So…you’re screwing that new piece down at the dance club, Sophia, Sonia, or something like that.”

          “…Serena.”

          “Good.”  She fell back onto the bed and lighted a cigarette with a small pink lighter.  Clint laid his head on her chest.  He could hear the rhythmic thump of her heart.  Her breasts were soft and comforting; they reminded Clint of the little satin pillows they use in coffins, the same kind he saw under his mother’s head when he was 14.

          Serena started talking. His ears pressed close to her flesh. Her voice was muffled and booming like they were talking underwater. “There’s this guy at the club…some creepy regular.” She took a pull on the cigarette. “He cornered me in the dressing room.”  Her voice caught in her throat. “He got…aggressive. He was almost inside me when Andre finally kicked in the door and threw him out on his ass. Pretty sure he’s banned, but I can’t rely on that, you know.  What if he comes back? What if he’s in the parking lot? What if…What am I going to do, baby?”

         Clint felt a surge of anger flow through him.  His emotions swirled in a cloudy haze.

         “Well, you don’t look like much…guess you have a huge dick or really make her laugh.”  Holsinger laughed and his fat jostled like soft rottenness.   “Shit, she’s feisty, I tell you.  Really likes the word ‘no.’ Tell you what...I like you.  I’ll drop the usual handling fee.” He winked at Clint. “Figure it’s expensive to keep a woman like that happy.”

          Clint stayed silent as he considered the offer.   

            “I’m so afraid. I need you to do something…” Clint lifted his head off her chest.  He dried her tears with his fingertips.  “I—I’ll fix this for you.  I just…just need to get something.”

           She looked at him quizzically.  He formed his fingers into the shape of a gun.  “I don’t want to imagine my life without you,” he said.

          “I knew you’d save me, baby.” She reached over, kissed him. Pushed his head back onto her chest; her soft hand warm on Clint’s ear.  She lighted another cigarette.    “Ok, I’ll try to describe him as best I can….”

           Holsinger jerked his head toward Bobby and pointed toward a small box under the TV.  Bobby stooped down, retrieved the box and put it in the big man’s lap.  “Here you go, kid.  .38 special. Revolver, so it won’t jam on you. Don’t worry about shells, it’s loaded.” His face twisted into a dark, arrogant smile.

          Bobby took the gun and wiped it down with a rag.  Once clean, he handed it to Clint.  The boy wrapped his fingers around the handle, his index finger flirting with the trigger. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

          Serena took a long, sensual pull on the smoke.  His head rose and fell, calm, like he was floating with the tide.   

           “First off,” she began, “he’s fat…and he smells absolutely terrible….”

                                                        END

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      Zachary Wilhide is a writer and artist who lives in Virginia Beach, VA with his wife and cats.  He has previously had stories published in Spelk Fiction, Close To The Bone, Yellow Mama Magazine, and Shotgun Honey, among others.  His art currently resides at https://www.deviantart.com/whytedevil.