Choke Back.

'Yo!! Your girls says she sick man! What's up with your bitch?"
I hear, as the bedroom door squeals on it's cheap hinges. Babyface bounding forward violently, his body thin and sharp, the white beater hanging from his torso, like rags on a scare crow. They've been smoking crack and talking for the past half  hour. All the air in my lungs seizes up, and I have no idea what to say. From behind him, I see She coming through the bedroom doorway, and run into the bathroom. Babyface staring at me, eyes wide and yellowed, the crack pipe jutting out from the fist of his hand, lighter in the other.
"Let me go talk to her." I say, standing up to face him, and he gives me the go ahead. I knock on the door three times, before she tells me she'll be out in a minute, keeping it locked. Then suddenly, she starts to dry heave. I can hear it, loudly, from outside the door, and it's clearly an act. This is like, the worst thing she could do. Completely predictable, and embarrassingly unconvincing. I knock on the door one more time, before Babyface loses his temper. It's sharp and intimidating, piercing through her immature theatrics and I can't breathe. His bark is like a vacuum, swiftly inhaling the air from my lungs.
"That bitch better stop playin' sick, and make my money back!" All the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My hands begin to tremble. The mind racing for defense. Overwhelming itself in its hysteria. I knock on the door again, my voice nervously abrupt, and she lets me in this time. Her face is soaked with tears, the eyes swollen and puffed out pink.
"I don't want to do it anymore Ang," she whispers through the teeth that are chewing at her nails. The eyes wide, darting back and forth, from me to the floor, and back again.
" What do you want me to do baby.." I say in frustration. A desperate tone, peppered with anger. " They know your faking it, that was so stupid. They're not dumb, they totally know. What the fuck do you want me to say now? If I tell them your not going out, they're gonna freak the fuck out.."  The tears brim over her lower eye lids, flowing quickly down her red hot cheeks, and she buries her face in her hands. The tips of her fingers vibrating, the pink tears of her cuticles, from the ferocious gnawing. Shes just shaking her head. That kind of tired sobbing, where words are useless, because your already screwed.
" K look, listen to me. Listen to me baby, " Grabbing her bear shoulders with my palms. The knot of the halter top, a tight bow, and it brushes against my fingers. She looks like a child in a hookers costume. Painfully awkward. Like a boy in tube top. " I'm going to tell them, your washing up, and I'm gonna help you get ready. I'll say your feeling better. That your gonna shower, and get dressed. After your done showering, we'll go in the bedroom to get ready, hopefully I can convince them to let me help you. Then we'll take off out the  window." The moment it comes out of my mouth, she recoils. Her eyes wide and skeptical. I grab her hand in mine, and she rips it back.
" There's no way they're gonna let us go in the bedroom alone," her voice travelling into a low whisper. "They already don't trust me Ang," The defeat in her voice irritates me, and I'm getting pissed.
" Look, pretending to be sick all night, and playing bullshit games is only gonna get our asses kicked!! Just do what I say, we'll get out. Please just trust me, and stop with the sick routine. It's just making it worse..okay? I'm gonna go out there and tell them your gonna shower and then we're getting ready.." Before she can protest, a loud knock on the door interrupts us.
"YO!" The two of us, cringing and reeling from the door. The seething whore monger, high on crack behind it.
"YO!! unlock the fucking door! What are you bitches doing?!" I reach out and turn the handle, unlocking the push button with a lame click, and he blows through. Grabs me by the arm with those claw like hands, and jerks me out into the hall.
"What are you doing bitch?" he spits at She. "You know what happens to little bitches that take advantage of my generosity don't chu? I go out of my way, in my good nature to help you, and this is how you play me? You think I'm fucking stupid or something?" He's leaning in the door way like a conniving vulture. The bulbous head, the gaunt neck, protruding Adam's apple. Backing her in that tiny cubicle space. " You know what Im'ma have to do, Im'ma have to fuck you for that money bitch! It's gonna go down. Or you get your ass out on the street, and change my mind, you hear me girl? Do you fucking hear me?"  The blood drains from my face. The muscles of my chest seizing shut, holding in the spastic beating of my panic stricken heart.
Violent red images parade through my mind.
A flood of rage, and hatred engulfs my thoughts.
I see myself stabbing him repeatedly with a kitchen knife.
Coming to a halting defeat, as I remember the other man in the room with me.
The hard corner of the coffee table.
The acknowledgement of my vulnerability next to Lebs prosecuting glare.
Hovering behind me, ready to choke back.
A blast of cold air runs through my spine.
Trapped.

Clips and Half Scenes.

The scene changes quickly. She comes skipping out of the shop, bags in each hand. A cheeky teenager going shopping for prom. The smile wide across her face, as she stoops down and sets the bags on the side walk, reaching her hands inside them. Pulling out the shoes, showing them off, and of course, the clothes. I try to force this approving smile, and tell her how pretty they are, but she's not buying my pathetic lie. Same goes for the halter tops and mini skirts. Awkward smile, empty compliments. Hoping that my chain smoking disguises my aversion. I imagine the way traffic perceives our trio as they pass us by. Two teenage females, girls really, standing in front of a blacked out sex shop with a restless, pacing crook. Our thin, hollowed bodies, the branding of our decline. The dark circles under our eyes. The sullen, whiter shade of pale masking our youthful features.
The cab ride to Babyface's small white townhouse house feels like the paddy wagon ride to closed custody. Just as cold, just as barren. The cab smells like outside debris and hot, stale lunch boxes. The little radio painfully blaring some kind of easy listening generic rock band. Maybe it was Phil Collins, maybe Celine Dion. Maybe even, George Micheal's. None the less, it was in bad taste. At least a handful of times, I'm drawn to glaring at the door handle. The little silver peg of a lock. Imagining what it would feel like to open the door, throw myself out and roll into traffic. What's the statistic likely hood that I'd get hit by a car. Would it be fatal. Is it worth a mangled leg, and road rash across my back and elbows.
She sits beside me, black plastic bags twisted in her slender hands.  Staring down at them in an all consuming gaze. The deep cut from the window glass, has finally started to heal over and close up. Creating a shiny pink scar around the edges. She scratches and tugs at it constantly, and I tend to reach out and hold that hand. Gently covering the area with my fingers, and resting her hand in my lap. She does it when she's nervous or afraid, and I take pride in being able to sooth it. There are so many things about her, that I love. The freckles that splash across her nose, the way it crinkles up when she laughs. Her eyes sparkling like a Santa Clause coke commercial. The long mousy brown curls of her hair. The way it looks full and buoyant, but when you touch it, it's light and soft, like a toddlers hair. The heavy french accent that comes along with all her words. Adding this child like innocence as she presses out each phrase, with a beginners charm. I often smile when she talks, she gets embarrassed, and asks me why I always do that. Lowering her head sheepishly, the long curls covering her face, and she hides from me in them. Thinking to myself, how unbelievably adorable she can be, and the purity I see in her heart, more often then not. The way she flirts with everyone she meets. Not over the top or desperate, but like a keen student, eager to offer praise and adoration. Always asking questions about them personally, and diverting the attention from herself. With a kind of sweet confidence everyone seemed to adore.
Holding her hand in the back seat, I'm grateful the cab ride is longer than I had expected. I don't want to let go of the warmth inside of her palm. The soothing engine, and the turning wheels. Lulling me in this moment of recognizing the beautiful parts of this bond, and how far away, they truly feel to me. The last few weeks playing across my mind in a series of clips and half scenes. The mornings I'd watch her sleep. The sun bringing with it a quiet warmth, and the light from the drawn curtain running across her face. The nights we'd lay in bed, confessing ourselves to each other. Rummaging through our life experiences, our memories. Our secrets. How many times, I told her, I won't let anything happen to you. It's you and me against it all. You and me, and here we are, sitting in the back of a filthy cab, on our way to settle up how many blow jobs it's going take to repay those items. Black plastic bags filled with sorrow. Filled with weeping.
The cabs halts to a stop, and her hand quickly tightens around mine.
The heart beat quickening, pulling at my breath.
The screeching of the hinges on the car door, as Babyface steps out.
My hand shaking as I reach for mine.
Letting go of her warm, fragile hand, and feel the cold air hit my palm.
Instant, and heart falling.
In a flash moment, I think of grabbing her and sitting back down. Slamming the door with a quick lock, and yelling at the driver to go. Drive as fast as you can, and don't stop.
But I don't.
I walk beside her, two white rabbits persuaded towards a twisted snare.
Stupid rabbits.

XXX Debauchery.

When She realized the fourteen hundred dollars was spent and gone. Leaving a black tar stink in my empty pocket, she freaked. A restless anxiety overcame her, and she would not be still, until she had a plan. This was the first time I'd ever seen her so concerned. So, fearful. A quiet, self loathing anger fell upon her, and her mind walked into a dark place. Sifting through downtown that day, not one smile would beam from her delicate features. The denial had packed up and ran away on her, and there was nothing I could say, to fill that empty space. The reality of where we were at, had amplified inside of her, and the weight was dragging her down. Hard.
Running into Babyface on those dry sullen streets, she had been drawn to him, like a moth to light. Or rather, a witless insect, to an electrifying bug zapper. A dull, sluggish house fly, spastic in it's movements, hovering towards it's end. Unaware of it's demise, searching for the gratifying warmth.
Babyface took one look at that melancholy face, and pounced like a lion on a sick and frail gazelle. Bending his long thin arm around her shoulders, and pulling her inside his cocoon of waste. A yellow smoking exhaust, flowing from his mouth, with each poisonous word he whispers, coiled snake in the Garden of Eden. Twisted body, swollen ashy knuckles, unsightly thin hands running along the back of her neck, stealing bits of her youth and innocence with each fowl touch. Like a horse fly at the beach, taking small, but painful bites as it wavers around you indiscreetly. Diving in swiftly, darting away even faster.
This is exactly how this all got started. She. Afraid and dependant, drawing in the attentions, fueled by her weakness.  
The vulnerable and naive voice, salty, warm tears in her eyes. Spilling her concerns, to this sleazy piece of shit. Babyface, joyfully welcoming it, and relieving her fears with premeditated lines. The Pimps Monologue. Lures me into daydreaming of vomiting in his face. For fun.
 I try to tell her,  baby girl, this is all a big game, he doesn't give a shit about you, but she refuses to listen. Her desperation numbing her and narrowing her perception. Tells me, maybe I'm wrong, and he'll help us out. Yeah, help us out, by slapping you on the ass and sending you out to Montreal Rd in a mini skirt and platform stripper heals. She tells me, maybe she could handle that, maybe it's not as bad as I might think. That we need the money. I'm revolted just to hear it, appalled that she would even try and believe this offensive bullshit. That she would, for even a second, trust this grim and lowly character, made my hands shake in disgust. I could have just walked away. Left her, to suffer the consequences of her uneducated approach, but I couldn't do it. Not only was I afraid for her, but I was just as lost as she was. Just as empty, as viciously alone and ashamed. As much as I was sick to my stomach with this, I was beginning to allow myself to believe, that perhaps this was our only choice. The vile, unsympathetic streets surrounding us, had begun to take it's toll. We were tired. So tired, that the idea of prostitution, had begun to lose it's perversion and filth, and become an option. It's not that I thought I could follow through with it, but that I thought maybe, I could watch her go through with it. Morphing me into a villainous, crooked woman. The starving witch inviting Hansel and Gretel for dinner. That I figured, at the very least, I could benefit from this. Use her. Even though, I didn't verbalize it, in the same way Babyface did, I was still just as two-faced and self serving as he was. All the more corrupt, because, willing or not, I was ready to throw her under the bus. At least Babyface could say it out loud, be forth right about it. I on the other hand, protested against it for only a short while, then quickly shutting my mouth, as I watched her fall into his diabolic charms. Convincing myself, again, that she is a big girl, and if she wanted to do this, I would be the first one to reap the benefits of her financial gain. So, I agreed to follow through with the plan. Plan being, two things. Babyface would be taking us clothes shopping,  then we would proceed to his house, and he would teach her the ropes. Within an hour of running into him downtown, we are in a perverse triple x sex shop, perusing hooker shoes and stripper gear. She, perks up seeing all the shiny sparkles on the shelves and turns to Babyface with a smile. Girls and shoes. Even in this repulsive moment, she's lavishing in the idea of new footwear. Totally blind to the shamefully vile porn, and sex trade debauchery. To the lingering degradation, and bad taste left in my my mouth. Claimed as audience to this undesirable shopping trip, my stomach turns in painful knots. Nausea permeating through me, vibrating in my chest. My skin feels like it's been touched by a frenzied crowd of middle aged child molesters, and I cannot sit here. Cannot watch her try on pair after pair of clear plastic plat forms and trashy spandex dresses. Watch him run his greasy hands over her body, inspecting her curves, perversly touching her to make sure all fits well. Not enough ass here... we need your tits to push out more here, and he already owns her. I imagine the kind of residue he leaves on her with each humiliating touch, and before I lash out in rage at them both, I step outside for cigarette. Each drag I take, is followed by lashing tears of perfectly hell bound shame.
I don't even know who I am anymore.

Tearing at my heels.

I wake up in a hotel room, the air still and quiet. A harsh and unwelcome ray of sunlight hitting my face through a slip in the curtain. I squint my eyes and shield them with my shaking hand. Clearing my dry throat and slowly sitting up, the hangover rising up and connecting to my heavy head. She, sleeps to my left, laying on her stomach, face pushed into the pillow. Little breathes of air, softly blowing the strands of her hair, back and forth over her mouth. She looks impossibly peaceful in these morning hours. Her slender hand hanging over the side of the bed. The soft smile she sleeps with, like she knows something beautiful, and she hasn't told me yet. Tyler's still perched in the lounge chair, eyes closed, darting back and forth under his eyelids, and I imagine he dreams of all the things he won't tell me. Maybe, it's a dark place, maybe it's a place of cumbersome memories, or maybe he's just full of shit. I'm tired of trying to put the puzzle together.
His face is pale and ashy, his lips, dry and cracked. The rails of cocaine from the night before have left   a lackluster residue over his skin and I expect him to rise to the day, bitter and sketchy. As usual.
Stumbling over to the card table, I sit down and pour myself a large glass of liquor and some kind of dark cola. The gratifying burning in my gut sets the tone for my day, and I'll be drunk from here on in kids.
Taking in the childlike noises of the sleeping pair, I reach into my jean pocket and pull out seven dollars. Seven dollars. I laugh, and shake my head, relieved that at the very least, I have enough money for a pack of smokes. With a fuzzy head, I turn and peer at the  forty ounce of liquor sitting on the table next to me, two thirds full, to the bag of weed in my lap, and I sigh in relief. Rescued by my ammunition. Able bodied to walk independent from my fear, drunkenly oblivious to my own stupor, and be free. Well, as close to free as I'm going to get, and for today, that'll do.
Tomorrow evening brings it own obstacles.
Obstacle number one, get Babyface out of the bedroom and away from She. Obstacle number two, get into the back bedroom with She, alone. Obstacle number three, hope to God the bedroom window is unlocked. Obstacle number four, get out of the bedroom window and hope to God, again, that we can run far enough, and fast enough, that they don't catch us. Which would most probably lead to a good beating, and one hundred percent chance of being raped. Sounds like some kind of sadistic weather report, and I'm lured back into seeing myself sitting in that hotel lounge chair. Pacified by the gulps of flat coke and vodka. My eyes closed, taking in the only quiet peace the day will hold for me. Before they wake up, and the melodramatic documentary of our dysfunctional tirade takes over. Slipping indiscreetly into the roles we've appointed ourselves with.
 Reality, spurting towards us, wild eyed and foaming at the mouth.
A rabid dog, vicious and cunning in it's attack.
Plunging ahead, in it's mania and tearing at my heels.
Ripping away at the soft flesh underneath.
Taking me down with one searing grip.
Hot puncture wounds making a mark out of my ignorance.
Unfortunately, reality for us, comes in the form of well raised street pimps, and not a rabid canine.
I would have preferred the bitter saliva, and lock jaw.

Twelve Times.

Some kind of ludicrous comment comes out of my mouth,  something like,
' Okay, but we're just going to count it.' Knowing damn well,  'just counting' this money, would be as likely as saying, ' I'm just going to do one line of cocaine.' It just not realistic. In the same way cocaine shamelessly removes your  inhibitions, money can blind you into over looking the likely-hood of consequences. It's really hard to ignore the possibilities available to you, when you're holding a fan of one-hundred dollar bills in your hand. More so, when you're sixteen years old, homeless, and hungry, sitting in a house you just broke into, so you could do laundry and take a shower.
I casually tell She to chill out and wait a bit, so I can go clean up. As I get up to cross the hall towards the bathroom, she calls out, in a little girl voice..
' Angie..please, can we take it?'
I smile as I close the door on her, and turn the shower knobs on, without answering her question. Taking off the worn out clothes I've been wearing for three days and stepping into that fresh, steaming hot water.
Showering on the run, is always fast. For some reason or another. Sometimes it's because you've locked yourself in the mall bathroom, washing yourself with paper towels and hand soap in the sink. Other times, it's because a friend let you come in while her Mom was at the grocery store, and you have to be in and out in twenty minutes. This time, it was because there was fourteen hundred dollars in the near by guest bedroom and I'm suddenly paranoid Mr. Suburban is going to come home any minute, and find us rummaging through his well furnished town house.
After wrapping up in the bathroom, I borrow a t shirt from our kindly home owner, and get dressed. She, repeating the same question as before, as I walk into the smaller bedroom and take the handful of cash. Stuffing it into my pocket. Pick up the sandwich bag full of mushrooms and tell her, it's time to go. Before rushing out the backdoor, we call a cab to meet us a few streets over. Fifteen minutes later, we're driving away from the suburban backdrop, and back into the filthy spectacle of downtown. I fumble awkwardly with the bills pushing out of my pocket, as I pay the cab driver and quickly duck into the lower level of the nearby mall. The crowd of  pedestrians camouflaging us, and I feel better. Ironically enough, the first item purchased with the money, was a wallet to hold it in. Next thing on our list, eat the bag of mushrooms. I honestly can't remember what led us to ingest the entire contents of the bag. Whether it was purely an immature curiosity, or just teenage paranoia. Either way, the shopping center, and the core of downtown, surrounding it, were about to turn into a kaleidoscopic haze of melting faces and  dancing receipts. The mushrooms are chewy and bitter as I forcefully push them down my throat with my tongue. Leaving a rancid poisonous taste in my dry mouth. Hitting the bottom of my stomach with a gurgling burn. My empty gut, devouring the hallucinogenic spores and sending me into a state of sketchy oblivion.
 News travels fast downtown, just like high school, every down and out addict, lost teenager, and hustler looking for someone to feed of off. Eyes wide and ears open for a meal ticket. Keeping your business to yourself is recommended, and I know that. Thing is, the mushrooms have made a display of us, and in our psychedelic mirage, we ignorantly step up to the stage available to us. Throwing money this way and that, making a mockery of ourselves, and inviting the manipulation of our peers. Every ones a pimp around here, and if I were to be honest, I'd shamefully add myself to that list.
 When I get arrested in the near future, that final moment, the police will interrogate me for three hours, and proceed to tell me, they followed us every moment of that day. They will laugh at me for being so ignorant and blatantly obvious. I'll think to myself, with my mouth tightly zipped, why they didn't arrest us then, and why they let it go on for two more weeks. There are three more robberies ahead of me, each one, the police saying, we were there. We were watching you. I'll laugh when they say this, and ask them why they didn't do their damn job...and the interrogation ends there, both cops walking out on me with a snicker and the slam of the metal door. I'll get twelve times the sentence She does. Twelve times.

Tea Party.

I felt completely out of place, walking down the clean, landscaped rural street. The sound of sprinklers and lawn mowers filling the early morning air. The grass still wet with dew, dogs being walked by stay at home mothers, passing us by with a smile and well mannered good morning. School buses stopping at corners, picking up the kiddies, for their fun filled school day. The engine roaring loudly, as the big yellow bus passes us by. Kids, with their noses pressed up on the glass, waving with big innocent smiles. I feel like a convict walking through the kindergarten playground. Ill fitted for this lovely morning scene.
As I step onto Mr. Suburbans well manicured lawn, I cringe. Visualizing myself as this big burly man stepping on sand castles at the beach. Little cries from the grass as I take each step. Like there's a spot light on me, pointing me out as an unwelcome guest.
 At the time, we had come all the way out here, to shower. An empty house, where we could shield ourselves, and pretend, if only for an afternoon, that we were okay. A desperate attempt to play house, like two little girls setting up a tea party. Little china cups filled with denial and lies. Small rectangle cookies made of rat poison and cockroaches. Sugared with self-loathing and miss placed direction.
 It's easy enough to get inside, being that the window in the living room, has a small break in it. Right in the bottom corner. Big enough to get my hand through, and unlatch the window, without tearing my skin up with glass shards. Pushing myself through that small window, leaves me with a resonating anxiety. Like every sound I make is heard by the neighbours, and the police have already been called. She, skips right to the kitchen, and rummages through the fridge. I honestly think this girl is half man, because I've never met a chick who can eat at a time like this. Reminds me of those stories you read in true crime novels, where the killer stays in the house after his blood thirsty crime, and fixes himself a roast beef sandwich. Drinks a can of Pepsi, and leaves his prints on the twisted pop can. Bringing irony to the darkest of moments.
I choose to take a quick tour of the house, just to be absolutely sure Mr. Suburban isn't here. For all we know he's in the shower, or standing behind his bedroom door, breathing heavily with a gun in his hand. As I tread quietly up the hardwood steps, my heart's beating out of my chest. She, clanging in the kitchen, as  I hit the last stair and quietly check the two bedrooms and bathroom. Nothing. I let out a deep sigh of relief, as I sit on the neatly made bed in the spare bedroom. Turning to my right, I see the dresser, and remember something Mr. Suburban had said the night we stayed here last.
'Don't go in my drawers. I mean it Angie.'
Only one thing can happen after someone says something like that to you, in a circumstance such as my own. You go through the damn drawers. I know, I'm such an asshole.
Opening the top drawer, I see two things.
One being, a medium sized plastic baggie, filled with white magic mushrooms.
The second thing being, a purple Crown Royal bag, filled with anything but, a bottle of mediocre whisky.
I call She, and she comes bounding up the stairs, half a bagel sticking out of her cute french mouth.
'Baby, look,' I say as she leans over my shoulder and peaks into the treasure chest. I grab the velvet purple bag and drop it's contents onto the bed beside me.
A respectably sized bundle of cash, held together by elastic bands.
She drops her jaw, and looks at me wide eyed, 'Angie...let me count it. Please?'

Mr.Suburban

Hind sight is always 20/20, as they say. Sitting in that chair, bending my mind to find a way into that room without suspicion, brought that cliche comment, into my thoughts. I think about the fourteen hundred dollars I had in my hand a few days ago. The curled wad of cash, so thick, it wouldn't even fit into my jean pocket. I think about how it could have paid for a week in a safe little hotel, plus food, but no. Those damn mushrooms we did, taking all the sense in my brain, turning it into a restless pile of meandering nonsense. An overwhelming trip, with a heavy undertone of hyper static. Mushrooms leave you with minimal decision making skills. Each thought overlapping the other, leaving you agitated and hurried. One thing to the next. Ever changing and transient. Never mind the fact, that, that day in particular, She and I had shared an entire quarter of mushrooms between each other, in one fowl tasting gulp. A quarter, seven grams. Ingested in a matter of five minutes between the both of us. That makes for one conscious smothering high, but I guess I can't blame it all on the mushrooms.
  One thing was to blame for a situation such as this, money. It's always money. Every dirty, under handed little thing, can owe itself to money. The reason I'm sitting here on this cheap, awkward, wood press chair. The reason She, is submissively inhaling the devil in the next room. Why, Leb is breathing deep, rage filled sighs across from me. Money. Everything costs something, in one way or another. Which takes this story back a week or so. To when Tyler called a friend, asking if we could crash at his place for the night.
Mr. Suburban. Mr. Suburban lives in a rural community outside of the city. He wears Billabong t-shirts and looks like a well to do college student with goals and aspirations. Mr.Suburban has a laid back beachy haircut, and probably snowboards in the winter season. He's a very cordial and well-mannered man, so much so, I'm surprised Tyler even has friends like this. Mr.Suburban has a practical, family marketed car, and his house is clean and neatly furnished. He kindly mixes all our drinks, and not once approaches me, or She with inappropriate sexual gestures. Even goes so far as to lend us pyjamas for our informal sleepover.  Offers us breakfast in the morning when we wake up hungover and delirious. When he leaves, he tells us to take our time and feel free to shower. Tells us he has two homes, this being the house he rarely uses, only to party, and not to worry about staying here most of the day, if we'd like too. He writes his phone number on the inside of my pack of cigarettes before he walks out the door, and I'm relieved.
 Too bad I'll screw it all up, when I rob his house a few days from now...

Dominian.

Dr.Dre's 'Next Episode' pumps out of the small stereo in the corner of the living room. The Lebanese guy sitting across from me, watching my every move. Running his eyes up and down my body. A quiet dominion radiating from him. I swear he's recording every breath I take. Every awkward twist of my hands, the quick nervous movements of my feet. I look him in the eye with subtle defiance. Knowing that if I were to say and do what I really wanted to at this point, he'd grab me by the hair and smash my face into the nearby coffee table. I know this, because it's what he told me would happen, and I believe him. He has the same look in his eye that Babyface has, except his, is peppered with a raging violence. You can smell it off him, the searing vicious heat. The kind of guy, who relishes intimidating women. I've seen him do it before, downtown in front of a coffee shop. Grabbing this poor girl and throwing her up against a wall by the neck of her shirt. His face in hers, so close, you could see the drops of spit hitting her soft,pretty face as he erupted. I've always been scared of him. From the moment I first saw him downtown a couple years before. A street hustling, heavy. Frequenting the main strip often, surrounded by his entourage of hip hop dressing thugs. Look at him the wrong way in passing, and he'll beat you down out in the open, just to make a point. When we came through the front door earlier, and I saw him there, my heart stopped. Panic welling in my gut as the door closed behind me and I realized I was trapped in this house with him. My foreboding coming to a reality, as he tells me to sit in this chair and not move. She is in the back bedroom with Babyface, smoking crack. I had been there with her minutes earlier, warning her not to smoke the little yellowed rocks, and it had pissed him off. So he kicked my ass out, She staring up at me, eyes glazed and high out of her mind. It took all my strength to walk away and shut that door on her. Leave her in that room, the tall black pimp hovering over her.
A private conversation, Leb says, and I need to mind my own business, keep my mouth shut and do as I'm told. Looking at the sturdy coffee table, I listen, and imagine how much it would hurt to have my head driven into that hard corner. I'm still wearing my jacket and leather boots, hoping I'll find a way to get out of here, but that's going to be hard. He went out of his way to,casually, lock all the doors and windows. Purposely making a scene out of it. Just to drive the nail in the coffin. Cocky asshole. I'm wishing I was a man right now, or at least a woman with a gun. I'm not a coward by any means, but sometimes, your just shit out of luck. I knew if I reacted on him, he would show me who's boss without a second thought. He's pushing me, to get a rise. Because he wants to hurt me. He gets off on this kind of shit. He wants me to be afraid, and I won't give it to him. What I am doing, is sitting here wishing I could get She out of that bedroom, and get the fuck out of here. Knowing that Babyface is in there, filling her little body with ten piece after ten piece. The hot, yellow, poison smoke, filling her lungs. The stink of melted rubber traveling through the house,crack, the worst smelling drug to ever hit the street. I'm wondering what he's saying to her now, ten minutes have passed since I was last in there. Is he still talking prices with her? has she changed her mind?
Leb's still sitting quietly across from me. Hat backwards, drink in hand, resting on his knee. Dre blaring out of the speakers, the base reverberating on the walls. I'm thinking about Tyler, and how he's never really there for me, when I truly need him. Hey Tyler, I'm being held hostage at this crazy pimps house, can you come pick me up? No such luck. All I have is his set of keys, gripped tightly in my clammy shaking fist. I'm asking myself how we got here, and what the fuck I can do about it. Searching the room with my eyes, and I remember that Leb probably didn't lock the back bedroom window. The room She is in, being molested by cocaine and a wise talking pimp. I hold onto that thought like an owl grips a mouse in the night, claws wrapped tightly around it's twisting rodent body. It's my only out. Now I just have to find a way to get back in there, and get greasy, lanky Babyface distracted. Never mind the violent Leb sitting across from me with those vindictive, drunk eyes..