The Fall of the Concubine

They were just two attractive white kids, roaming the ghetto for danger and prostitutes. They had no intention of stopping or employing the whores they hunted, for that would hardly be a respectable pastime. They simply sought to find adventure in their beige, suburban lives. Unafflicted by consequence, they traveled through the slums, pointing out beggars and drunkards and the much-desired temptresses, with their platform heels and neon shorts.

And what should they do when they came upon a whore? They would but merely drive away, pointing in the mirror at her misfortune of circumstance. Affluent and promising, they never dreamed of stopping to engage, only to look upon the meek with undeniable superiority.

Perhaps, they proverbially wished to remind themselves of all they had, to bear witness to the poor, the weak, and the desperate in hopes of finding meaning. But alas, their goal was only to get high on prospective danger, as if viewing the lives of the ragged was enough to boost their street credibility, to make them feel alive.

With so many "what ifs" between them and so many nights spent searching the ceiling for the answers to life, they just needed to feel alive.

How funny that death would be the one to do the job.

They were two fools in love, or the modern version of it, unmoved by the plight of the layman, destined to be more than average in every endeavor. They feared authority only because they feared for their status. What would the neighbors say about the children caught on the bad side of town; had they caught infection, or worse, poverty, in the course of their travels? They would be social pariahs, cursed to a life of rejected invitations and snide remarks.

No, they were just there to look, not to touch and not to buy, but to see, to err on the side of danger, but with a solid layer of glass and arrogance to protect them from the beasts that lay inside.

How disgusted they must have felt when fate made the decision that they should have a close encounter of the whore kind.

With a dull thunk and a low moan, she fell. Fearing for his wheels and paint job, the male rushed from the car, bravely instructing his frail counterpart to stay behind and, under no circumstances, call the police. The consequences would be monumental.

With a quivering hand, he removed his lettered jacket and kneeled to check the pulse of his repulsive victim. Had he a compassionate mind, he may have recognized that, despite the difference in skin tone and class, the hooker's heart beat beneath her breast with no disparity to the way which his did beat

Alas, his considerations reached only the end of his nose and the tip of his only tool, and with disgust and effort, he moved the whore to the edge of the road to die.

The female companion, moved to near hysterics, waited loyally inside the vehicle. She sobbed, not for the crime they committed or for her companion's dishonorable acts, but for possibility. Should the whore die, there would be only a dead whore. Her blood would not be on the hands of her true killers, but on the cold sidewalk in an unimportant part of town.

However, should the whore live to see the morning, the pair would live in terror. Should she be intelligent enough, the whore could memorize the license plate number of the car that maimed her. She could go to the police with a description of her almost killers and the lettered jacket now resting on the hood of the car. Their lives would surely end when the whore made her move, and then who would become the royalty of the prom?

She could not allow such a travesty to transpire.

With swift movements, she extricated herself from the vehicle. In seconds, she was standing above the whore, who was quite still and faintly blue upon the pavement.

In the trained movement of a soccer star, she swiftly made a connection between her high heeled boot and the peasant's face. Again and again she kicked, until the pavement was warm with blood and retribution. Only when she her cheeks were red and her boots were stained with cheap makeup and brain matter did she feel lover's eyes upon her back.

She stopped immediately and coolly turned on her heel. Instead of seeking comfort in an embrace or reassurance in a word, she snarled at him. Her eyes were fierce with a lifetime of rage.

"Take me home now," she ordered, avoiding his gaze as she tidied her hair, "and don't look at me that way. The cunt got what she deserved. She made a mess of my shoes."


End.



Disclaimers:
1) This is fiction and not based on true events
2) For the record, I don't make a habit of trolling the ghetto for hookers to look at and/or kill