New Orleans Pussyfoot

Karla woke up in the hotel bed, sawdust in her hair for reasons she would never figure out. She was naked, the angry teeth of a bottle cap leaving an impression on her left breast. Her head rocked in alcoholic awe of sunshine, and she searched the room for the guy- whoever he was- because there had to be one. She looked around at the empty: couldn’t have scored this type of room without the pussyfoot.

The guy- whoever he was- was gone, giving her the chance to shower, repent, whatever it is that girls like Karla do the day after nights like that. She sat at the edge of the bed, feeling soreness between her legs and in her anus- she knew she had to be plenty drunk to give asshole... She sighs and  idly eyeballs the wastebasket for signs of protection. Empty. Oh well.

She wanted to speak, to no one in particular, to everyone, to her Mom but mostly her Dad but when she opened her mouth she made hot vomit- running half-hearted, half-assed, to the bathroom- but it was too late. She arrived just in time to catch sight of herself naked, soaked in her own rainbow chunk, un-chewed hunks of ground beef burger sliding down her smooth belly, and she wanted to laugh at her hideous situation, at knocking rock-bottom in a God-free galaxy. But all that came out of her was a blast of gas so foul she had to leave the bathroom.

The notepad on the desktop read “St. Louis Hotel New Orleans.” Out the window, three stories down, the wind blew heavy threw the sober Sunday morning French Quarter. A wino looked up and saw her as she was: dirty naked, spoiled, and he looked away in disgust. Karla wondered if it was too late to pray.

Back inside the hotel room she checked the drawer of the nightstand. There was no Gideon’s Bible. There was only a gun.

The rush of blood to her brain dizzied her, and somehow, in the matter of a moment, she was sitting on the bed again, only now she was holding the gun from the nightstand in her trembling hands. It was heavy, it was cold: it was a gun. She thought about the memo pad on the desk and briefly considered a note. A note to no one, saying nothing, to explain an act that would never be understood. Why not leave them asking why?

And then as easily as she sucked cock for champagne the gun was in Karla’s mouth, and then before she could pretend to be a poet her finger found the courage to pull on the trigger, and the bullet exploded through the back of her skull, fresh grey brain with red sauce tossed against the eggshell wall. For three-fifths of a second, before her husk hit the industrial carpet, Karla Understood, and you might have seen the smile in her eyes if you knew what to look for, but you don’t.