American Skin

The black girl did a little dance, then a tap routine in the centre of the ring, the crowd loving it. Sherry looked at Dade, said,

“Bring it on, bitch.”

Made her way into the centre, swaying slightly, as if she was about to drop, the black girl put her hands on her lips, sneered,

“Forgot your lip gloss, mama?”

And was lifted clear off her feet by a left hook from Sherry, the clean crunch of her jaw breaking, a collective gasp from the crowd, especially Dade.

That’s all she wrote.

Flat on her back, a moan trying to form. Sherry stood over her, planted a dainty foot on her belly, looked up, said,

“White power.”

The crowd erupted, wild screaming, roars of approval, the referee pulled Sherry off, her mouth streaming blood, counted out the black, Sherry demanded,

“Where’s my fifty bucks?”

Coming out of the ring, the hillbilly passed her a bottle of shine, she put it on its head, drank deep, then shouted,

“Nigrah in her place.”

More acclaim, she took another swig then hurled the shine over the crowd, blessing them in hooch and bigotry. Dade collected his winnings, the bookie, stunned, went,

“What a pistol.”

Dade, grin ear to ear, pulled her into his vehicle. Could feel the adrenaline burning off her, she said,

“Let’s fuck.”

They did.

Then to Denny’s, ordered steaks and grits, he’d brought along a batch of Coors. Sherry still in her bloodied gear, the waitress staring wide eyed. Dade raised his bottle, said,

“You had me going there.”

His prick still ached from the sex, Sherry stabbed at her split lip, said,

“I had help.”

“What?”

She opened her right hand, a chunk of lead in there. Dade whistled, acknowledged,

“Babe, you’ve got you some moves.”

Later, in the villa, downing shots of bourbon, Sherry, her mouth coming off his dick, asked,

“Think you could waste a dude for me?”

He shrugged, asked,

“What he’d do?”

“Gut shot my old man.”

Dade drained his glass, asked,

“You miss him, huh, your old man?”

Her mouth turned down, she spat,

“He was a cocksucker.”

Then she hit the shower, singing, if he wasn’t mistaken,

“Blanket on the Ground.”

If he wasn’t hitting a speed burn he’d have joined her, his body was going into tremens, she came out, buck naked, looked at him, asked,

“You hurtin’, baby?”

“What?”

“Got yourself a dose of the crank blues, a little short maybe?”

Yet again she was out of left field, he decided to fess up, said,

“Yeah, some, my um, meds are a little low, not like I’m some kind of lame addict bu you know.”

Sherry had pulled on a black halter top, not as tight as skin but akin to strangulation, then sat on the bed to pull on tight white jeans, finally she stood, cocked a hip, asked,

“What you need, fellah? I got, uppers, downers, sidewinders, ludes, crystal, jitter bugs, black beauties, white juice...”

And stopped.

He didn’t know if she was yanking his chain, had never heard of some of these, asked,

“You yanking my chain?

She checked her boobs in the mirror, juggled around to get them up and frisky, said,

“I never kid about dope.”

He had to know, asked,

“Where’d you get them?”

And she turned, her eyes with a cold slant, said,

“My old man was in the business, let’s say I took some samples.”

He was delighted, went,

“Bring it on.”

She did.

A black vanity case, opened it, his jaw dropped. In alphabetical order, neatly arranged, more dope than in a Hunter S. Thompson trip. She went to S, pulled out some cellophane, dumped a rash of pills on the bed. He was mesmerised, said,

“Let’s start at A.”

She shut the case, put a finger to her lips, said,

“Sh... sh, God doesn’t like greedy boys.”

He dry popped a pill, crushed it with his prison molars, tasted the acrid bent, asked,

“Like you believe in God?”

Kidding, gently fucking with her, lust in his blood, he could play around and she gave the answer that bought his soul, said,

“He gave us Tammy Wynette, what’s not to believe?”

He gave the only answer available:

“Amen, sister.”