by: Bobbi Raye Duke
The Amtrak train flew by on the track on its way to Memphis. The tall, stocky, raven haired, buff woman came out of the lavatory, cool and slow. She looked around, clad in a black velvet bustier studded with diamonds and blue jeans. “What’s the matter,” she thought playfully, “never seen a sexually independent woman before? Goodness knows when JC Chasez licks the stage, you glorify him, but when Madonna displays her own sexual independence, you scorn her and all the young’uns who come after her.”
The other woman, her accomplice, was sitting tightly in her chair, trying to hide desperately from the real world that she detested. A haggard woman, her bleached hair looked like it was forced by gunpoint into curlers, then released never to be the same again. Her face looked like a boiled cabbage, it looked like if you touched it with the slightest touch, it would literally explode, tissue, viscera, blood and all, on contact with a feather-touch, and release air filled with gall, hate, loathing and verbal/emotional abuse and abominable obscenity like no other a human being had ever encountered before. She pathetically quivered in her seat, looking like a heap of soggy Corn Flakes and feeling that way. She wore a pentagram hidden deep in her hefty cleavage, though she looked like just a ragged old evil thing that escaped a nursing home years ago, there was a dark truth about hr, she was a Satanic Wiccan.
The other woman strided toward her seat cooly as a black panther. She sat down in her seat. A waitress went up to her and said “Would you care for a cocktail, Madam?” “A Kahlua and cream, please.” the woman said in a business-is-business type attitude. The two women sat staring at the tunnel in front of them, they were in the middle of the train, near the emergency exit. They sat quietly, not talking to each ther for a moment. The raven-haired siren peered out the window where the other woman was sitting. “So funny,” she said in a Southern drawl. “One would think only Angels fly as swiftly.” She slyly grinned. “Don’t speak of Angels. They give me the evil runs,” the other woman grumbled, her voice sounding like it was a fart coming from the depths of Hell itself, and just as foul-smelling.
The other woman got her Kahlua and Cream and coolly and luxuriously sipped it. The business between the two was a black-market peddling of an illegal new drug made from fermented birch bark brew with a dangerous hallucination-inducing chemical, liquid nexxus, the once-famous drug of night clubs, now in liquid form. Wiccans of the Haggard’s coven now used it to recieve money in order to acquire the accessories to do what thy did best–kidnap, sexual assault, sexual assualt of minors, body mutilation, animal abuse, murder, and otheprverse abominatins, or what they called “coven rituals”.
“Got the cooler?” The raven-haired siren said. The Haggard slyly displayed it subtly, only to the siren, under her seat. Full of the stuff, the woman trusted the Haggard, she knew it was full of jug after jug. The Haggard’s coven had connections natiowide by internet. Her next stop was Memphis to poison youth, teens, and heaven knows whoever else 2 to 30 with her evil brew while she killed, raped, molested and slaughtered other innocent, pure youth completely hidden from the public eye very cleverly.
“Not this time”, the siren thought. The siren pulled open a sleek, sexy gold case, full of a cool 1k. She displayed the money wih a smile. Slience filled the car as the Haggard reached for the money with one hand, her other hand on the handle of the cooler.
Perfect timing.
The siren clasped her hand around the woman’s hand as if she were cuffing her. A lovely rush of adrenaline ran through the siren’s body as she yanked the woman from her seat, much to the immediate dismay of all on board who watched. The Haggard screeched, howled and bellowed, bellowing horrid obscenities while the siren got her in a headlock. The woman sounded like Satan as a Bostonian woman of 78. Both spilled out of the emergency door like moonshine from a jug. The siren cleverly usedthe Haggard’s plastic cooler as a good cushion as both bodies bounced from the train into a nearby field. A figure suddenly trotted up to them on a horse as the siren cleverly hog-tied the screeching Haggard quicker than the blink of an eye. The figure on the horse was…angelic. She was a lovely brunette country girl in very short cutoffs and a lovely blue bandanna print halter top. A roar equivalent of that of a lion shook the nearby woods as a dashing car, painted an orange color, came storming out of nowhere belting passionately the first few bars of Dixie.
The driver appeared, a paradoxically wise yet sweetly naiive sort of country gentleman, someone a woman would want to make sweet passionate love to for the rest of her life, peered out of the window and smiled with a genuine sweetness. “Have a nice ride, shugah?” he asked the screaming, hysterical haggard.
“Crazy dyke!” the haggard screamed in an alto voice to the siren. The siren lifted up her… mask…and yanked something off her neck…a voice altering computer chip! The woman suddenly spokewith the voice of a sexy, sweet, Georgian 18-year-old guy!
“I do believe the proper offensive term you wanna use is crazy homo, shugah!”
The siren yanked off her mask. She was an 18-year-old blonde Georgia man, handsome and sly as a cougar and just as lithe, as innocent and pure as Swiss cream.
The prisoner was taken to the General Lee as the blonde took his suit off to reveal his manly self. The wild horse was set free, and the trio drove with the song (just for variety’s sake, plus it was certainly loud enough to drown out the Haggard’s screeching) “Get Ready For This” by 2 Unlimited (what? A native Georgian listens just to Garth Brooks all the time?)
“Who the hell are you? Who the hell are you schizos?!” The Haggard screamed over and over.
[Charlie’s Voice, country music similar to the Dukes of Hazzard theme plays in the background] Not too long ago, there were some rednecks from Georgia. They were all moonshine runners in the beginning, running from a very corrupt law enforcement. Times were tough at my own agency, and I needed three good people who could take a lot of wear and tear. These three people were perfect, and now they and their lovely, quick-as-a-cat-car work for me. My name is Charlie.
*Charlie’s Angels theme plays*