07-03-2018, 05:18 PM
***
America Jackson is slumped over backwards in a chair in a brokedown studio apartment in the Westside ghetto. A window unit AC sputters dutifully as it tries and fails to fight against the heat of a Teir-5 summer. She wears a sheer white nighty over a worn white bra and panties, nearly glowing against her dark curvaceous body. She holds the neck of a fifth of Jack between two fingers, the bottle nearly gone and slipping out of her grasp.
America is glaring drunkenly at a graffiti portrait on her wall. The portrait is of a pretty young woman with rainbow skin and kaleidoscope eyes.
Between them is a table, and on the table is a loaded gun.
America lifts the bottle to her lips, finishing what she can and letting the rest dribble down her chin. She throws the bottle at the portrait, and it shatters against the wall.
America staggers up, grabs the gun, and presses the barrel against her temple.
The portrait blinks.
The hair starts to move from an invisible breeze. The eyes start to swirl bright colors.
“Hey America,” Luci says from the wall.
America lets the gun fall to her side and tumbles back into the chair again.
“Sup Luci,” America slurs, her eyes closed. “We wasted those suckas.”
The graffiti portrait of Luci nods.
“Good,” she says, her voice echoing dreamilly. “Did you get Jarl?”
America nods back, her afro bouncing.
“Wasted that sucka...” America repeats aggressively.
The portrait of Luci breathes a sigh of relief. The painting finds and lights a hand rolled cigarette. When she exhales, a sweet rainbow smoke fills the apartment. She keeps her weird psychedelic eyes trained on America.
“Welcome to the Westside, Lueteniant,” Luci says, trying to add a stern edge to her voice. America does not move. Luci frowns. “Are you ready to receive your orders?”
“There were heavy casualties,” America mumbles. Luci’s heart sinks. “But not more than expected.”
There is a silence in the apartment.
“I didn’t tell you to put on that mask,” the painting of Luci says carefully. “When you put that mask on, you decided to dive head-first into this war. I’m not here to hold to your hand and tell you everything will be ok, because it won’t. I’m here to help you win. I don’t have time for anyone who’s going to be a weak link. If you can’t pull your shit together then you’re a liability. Now are you ready to receive your orders?”
America stumbles up and glares at the graffiti picture with the swirling eyes.
The painting glares back.
“Yeah,” America says.
***
America Jackson is slumped over backwards in a chair in a brokedown studio apartment in the Westside ghetto. A window unit AC sputters dutifully as it tries and fails to fight against the heat of a Teir-5 summer. She wears a sheer white nighty over a worn white bra and panties, nearly glowing against her dark curvaceous body. She holds the neck of a fifth of Jack between two fingers, the bottle nearly gone and slipping out of her grasp.
America is glaring drunkenly at a graffiti portrait on her wall. The portrait is of a pretty young woman with rainbow skin and kaleidoscope eyes.
Between them is a table, and on the table is a loaded gun.
America lifts the bottle to her lips, finishing what she can and letting the rest dribble down her chin. She throws the bottle at the portrait, and it shatters against the wall.
America staggers up, grabs the gun, and presses the barrel against her temple.
The portrait blinks.
The hair starts to move from an invisible breeze. The eyes start to swirl bright colors.
“Hey America,” Luci says from the wall.
America lets the gun fall to her side and tumbles back into the chair again.
“Sup Luci,” America slurs, her eyes closed. “We wasted those suckas.”
The graffiti portrait of Luci nods.
“Good,” she says, her voice echoing dreamilly. “Did you get Jarl?”
America nods back, her afro bouncing.
“Wasted that sucka...” America repeats aggressively.
The portrait of Luci breathes a sigh of relief. The painting finds and lights a hand rolled cigarette. When she exhales, a sweet rainbow smoke fills the apartment. She keeps her weird psychedelic eyes trained on America.
“Welcome to the Westside, Lueteniant,” Luci says, trying to add a stern edge to her voice. America does not move. Luci frowns. “Are you ready to receive your orders?”
“There were heavy casualties,” America mumbles. Luci’s heart sinks. “But not more than expected.”
There is a silence in the apartment.
“I didn’t tell you to put on that mask,” the painting of Luci says carefully. “When you put that mask on, you decided to dive head-first into this war. I’m not here to hold to your hand and tell you everything will be ok, because it won’t. I’m here to help you win. I don’t have time for anyone who’s going to be a weak link. If you can’t pull your shit together then you’re a liability. Now are you ready to receive your orders?”
America stumbles up and glares at the graffiti picture with the swirling eyes.
The painting glares back.
“Yeah,” America says.
***