Charles Bock - Beautiful Children

In the doorway: Rod Erectile had been wild-eyed and jittery and stiff as a diving board. He had come a long way just for this shoot, and he had a plane back to the valley in four hours, and he didn't give a flying FUCK what the holdup was. It's not like this broad's a virgin, right?

Jabba rubbed the back of his neck, studied the fixture above them. “Hiro. This light's strong enough to shoot in?”

The Jap sneaked into the doorway, checked a viewfinder. “Maybe. Probably.”

“Set up a pod, just to be safe.” Turning to Rod now, Jabba said, “Put her on the counter if you need to. That's always hot.”

They moved equipment and reblocked the shoot, acting like nothing unusual was happening, like Cheri was an obstacle they had to work around. A yellow, bilious taste crawled from the bottom of Ponyboy's stomach. If there were ever a time in his life to grab his light saber and adjust the kung fu grip, he knew this was it.

And he did it. He said, “Don't think so, Jab,” and felt his stomach hardening, the bile in his throat turning dry.

His first step wasn't the steadiest step he'd ever taken but it did the trick. His next step was not a lick easier. Just what the fuck are you doing, Jabba wanted to know. Ponyboy answered by reaching for the woman he loved, getting close enough to her cheek to smell her perfume. He whispered her name and kissed her forehead. He was going to take care of everything, he said. On the count of three she should try and get up.

His arms went underneath hers and he counted one and Jabba repeated his desire to know what was going on. A contract was a contract, Jabba said.

From over his shoulder, he heard Rod Erectile cuss and snort. He heard Jabba rustling. Cheri's body was warm, responsive and pliant. Ponyboy lifted her, and she followed his guidance once more, into the open main area of the vestibule, where a human wall had formed: the Jap dead of expression; Rod Erectile, his eyes buggy, all twitching and tweaking. A moth flew down from the lighting fixture. Jabba was behind his goons, waiting.

“You sure you want to cross me, boy? All that's going to happen is that we snap every bone in your body, she ends up getting fucked anyway.”

The guy was as close to a fucking dad as Ponyboy'd had since he'd been out on his own, and he was grinning. “Maybe when I'm done with her, I'll take care of you next. Way I remember it, you don't exactly mind having my dick in your mouth.”

Ponyboy kept staring straight ahead. He clenched his fists, waiting for shit to go down, for the beginning of the end of life as he knew it.

And so occupied, he wasn't exactly tuned in when Cheri's hand lifted from his shoulder.

Indeed, it wasn't until she took that first tentative step toward the sink counter that Ponyboy recognized she was moving.

Motherfuckers talk about the moment of truth and they think they fucking know, and the truth is, they don't know dick. Meanwhile, when all the fucking chips had been on the table and Ponyboy had been staring into the face of the devil, what had happened?

What had happened was that Cheri had gathered up her blouse, and then her silky sweatpants.

She was wobbly, composing herself, holding her shit in this messy bundle in front of her chest, with her hair falling down in front of her face.

Turning toward the exit, she ducked her head, and started forward. She looked small, damaged, catatonic, teetering on her high heels, her steps uneven and slight.

Jabba's eyes stayed trained on Ponyboy. Ponyboy stayed focused right back, at the same time very much aware of his girl.

And what happened was, Cheri kept walking.

Right past Jabba. Through the henchmen, who all made a point of looking fierce and leering at her chest and shoving out their bellies so they rubbed against her. She walked right out of the office and Ponyboy followed behind and turned back to watch them to see they didn't follow.

The Jeep was right where they'd left it. The compact disc player started up at the same point in the song where it had been when the engine shut down.

Look, a man fucks up, there's a price. Anyone worth a piss understands as much. This price gets paid in the airy static of an expensive stereo system through a wordless drive home. It gets paid in the slamming of doors. Or it's worse: not one door gets slammed; her voice doesn't raise so much as an octave; she does not utter one word in anger, or spite, or anything except a tight, controlled politeness; the door to her bedroom behind her shuts gently and then there is no sound, no response. You put your woman in a situation the way Ponyboy did, you deserve what you get, and he could accept that much. Ponyboy took responsibility. He slept on the couch without complaint, telling Cheri that if she wanted him out, that was cool, only could he borrow a few bucks to get a room? Cheri did not so much as crack a smile. Which was understandable. She'd been through the wringer. There had to be some kind of decompression period.

When Ponyboy had been planning the tryout, he'd told himself that the difference between him and Jabba — between him and anyone involved in the porn industry — was that they were the products of what a life without love did to you, whereas he had his Cheri girl. Even when the shit had gone down, when Ponyboy had faced his moment of truth, he'd picked the right door. Using the kung fu grip, he'd drawn an inside straight on the devil and triumphed over Darth Fucking Vader. Pony-boy had rescued his lady from the insurmountable clutches of evil. Only, now it turned out, there wasn't no ride off into the Technicolor sunset while the credits rolled. He didn't get no big fucking party with Ewoks waving into the camera and licensed movie underwear. No. His big moment of truth and he'd done the right thing, and after it all was said and done, his Cheri girl had not decompressed, his Cheri girl had closed down to him. Something inside the woman Ponyboy loved was shut off, locked away, and meanwhile here he was, running through the middle of the desert, into the crowd, wading through waves of people who had come out here looking for, maybe even finding, some kind of salvation; yeah, that's what they wanted, that's why these motherfuckers were out here, the pretty girls basking in their own beauty and the attention it brought; the nonentities finding something in the scene that brought out the kind of person that maybe they thought they wanted to be; the skinheads finding some sort of salvation through hatred and confrontation and the violence of the pit. But something, some damn thing, whether temporary or permanent. Every one of these sinners, out here in the night, standing in Ponyboy's way, talking, watching the band, tripping out, zoning, whatever the fuck, all of them looking for something that might sustain them, that might keep them going the way that a cold hard motherfucker was sustained by the voice of the girl he loves, by the feeling that he was the most special and important person in the world to her. This is what any strong relationship provides, allowing a human being to survive in this miserable and fucked-up world.

You fuck that up, all bets are off.

Ponyboy's dick was in a medium state of hardness, not raging or anything, but still in working shape. Toward the side of the stage he plowed through some scrawny fuck, knocking the green wool cap from his head, leaving the guy in a puddle of pain. Ponyboy looked in all directions, hurried now, a bit of panic setting in. Then he saw the blonde with pink streaks in her hair. Swaying side to side, she had a deadly rack. Best of all she was carrying a digital camera. Just what he was looking for.

7.6

Consciousness announced itself with pressure. Throbbing, from behind her eye sockets, worked outward. Keeping her eyes closed allowed her to block out the pain, almost, and the girl with the shaved head kept her eyes shut. She tried to give herself to the blackness, letting go until the borders of her physical form no longer existed. The blackness tempted her, flirting; she felt solitary, disembodied. Then the pressure came back, pounding with more intensity.