Chuck Wendig Made Me Do It

I sat out last week's fiction challenge but this week, Chuck was back with one that was irresistible.  Guns. In a thousand words or less.  'Happiness is a warm gun," I thought, having just viewed Red on Netflix. And this nasty little story percolated up from the dismal swamp that is my imagination.

Check out Chuck Wendig's Terrible Minds blog  ("Must Love Guns") to see the other stories inspired by the prompt.

And here's my story:

GUN CONTROL

All the girls have a gimmick.

Charla’s got the snake, an albino ball python she raised as a pet right out of the egg. Ball pythons can live to be 30, so Slinky’s got another 15 good years left as a performer. Not Charla though. Nobody wants to look at a 40-year-old’s saggy tits.

Not that she’ll even make it to 30 the way she hits the pipe.

Rada shtick is “the dirty girl.” She never washes her ya-ya during the week, so by the weekend she’s built up a powerful stink. Men line up to dip their fingers in the poisoned honey of her rancid cunt, fumble all over themselves to pad her thong with their hard-earned cash.

Easy cum, easy go.

We’re not supposed to touch the customers unless we take them upstairs but Rada pays JoJo a cut and he looks the other way. Probably dips his fingers himself now and again. Probably considers it one of the perks of the job.

Mel’s gimmick is the body paint, which she mixes up special with little glittery bits thrown in so that when she peels down, she looks like that blue girl from the X-Men, the one who used to be married to John Stamos.
JoJo thought it was too weird at first but she convinced him to let her try it out and sure enough, the geeks from the university can’t get enough of her.

She’s so popular one of the girls over at the Pink Velvet tried to copy her style for awhile.

When she didn’t cease and desist after JoJo asked her politely, he sent Yusef to pay her a visit. Yusef thinks we’re all whores anyway so there wasn’t a lot of talking involved in their conversation.

She doesn’t dance any more. I think that’s a mistake. There are some real freaks out there, men who would enjoy looking a girl whose breasts have been sliced off. She could have made some serious money.

Some women have no imagination.

Men don’t come to a titty bar just to gawp at flesh. They can do that at home without the cover charge and the watered-down drinks. Even the paid porn sites have plenty of freebies, pictures and video clips and fetish trappings. When you’re at home, you can just rub one out when you get the urge. You can’t do that at a club.

Sure, some men have tried it here, but a quick word from Yusef usually convinced them to take it outside, or at least to the men’s room.

I think men come to the club as a way of convincing themselves—in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary—that they’re still the dominant sex on the planet.

And what’s the one thing men like playing with even more than their dicks?

Guns.

Men love guns.

That’s my gimmick.

I can’t dance for shit but the men love the guns.

I come out on stage like gun-whore Barbie, wrapped in bandoliers and strapped with holsters in all sorts of interesting places.

I writhe around for awhile and then fellate a Desert Eagle—always a crowd pleaser—and then finish off by firing a pair of Colt .45s hanging on either side of my g-string.

The crowd always goes nuts at that point.

They think I’m using blanks.

They’re wrong.

If they even notice the little puffs of powdered concrete when the bullets hit the back wall, they think it’s part of the show.

JoJo thinks I’m a crazy bitch and he’s right about that, but I’m the star attraction.

The audience eats it up.

Of course they do. It feels dangerous in a safe way, like fucking a crack whore while wearing a condom.

They’ll never see it coming whe day I aim to kill.

I’ll take Yusef out first—he’s the only one who might be fast enough to stop me.

The others? It’ll be just like target practice, only more fun.

My daddy taught me two things in life—how to give a decent blowjob and how to handle a gun.

“Gun control,” he used to tell me, “is hitting what you aim for.”

I was daddy’s good girl.