Cast Girls

BBG – Ch. 3 – Dragon with the Girl Tattoo

dane — Sun, 25 Sep 2011 23:51:34 +0000

The Dragon with the Girl Tattoo
Warily, with ears pinned back and tail between my legs, I treaded into Sludgetown’s Recovery District. Moving cautiously, I was in foreign territory now. The long shadows of crosses, moons and stars spread out in front of me across the mean streets that housed the city’s churches, mosques, temples and synagogues. Even the Scientologists had a presence here. The Watchtower publishing works could be heard humming off in the early evening distance. For every house of worship came with its own basement; a place to store dusty pews and little used scripture, but mostly a place designed entirely as the perfect meeting place for disturbed souls on the arduous path to recovery and a sliver of redemption. It was here that I came to bare my sins and make a last fleeting effort to keep my job.

There they were, the alcoholics, huddled together around an old trash can, chain-smoking coffin nails like they were coming back into style. See the shifty-eyed folks with a six-pack in each hand? Those would be the gamblers. They were desperately looking for a little slice of the action that this part of town hadn’t seen in years. Look at those gals and fellers; pants around their knees and a Big Gulp-sized coffee cup in their hands. The NA support group was a jittery bunch indeed. Need I even mention Overeaters Anonymous? They were consuming every addiction they could get their hands on, as long it was less than 25 calories a hit and could easily fit into a 3-litre cooler. Everyone was hanging out on the steps of their respective house of worship sponsor. So, where would I find my mean girls; my unrepentant lady-pugilists now wallowing in the realization of their sins? Smoking crack? Hogging the pork rinds? Up to their earlobes in porn? Just what does a violent girl cling to when the violence is gone? My meeting would be starting soon and I hadn’t the faintest idea into the bowels of which house of the holy would be willing to accept us.

How do you ask? How do you explain? That is to say, knee-high leather boots, fishnet stockings and a tiny leather jacket that exposed my mid-riff was my normal evening attire? No one ever sent me the Recovery Addicts Fall Fashion Catalog. Just how is one supposed to dress for this sort of thing? Was it any surprise that the alcoholics completely misread my intentions?

“So, are you looking for Sex Addicts Anonymous or are you just out soliciting?” asked the shaky man with six days of growth on his chin and a carton of cheap cigs tucked into his back pocket.

“Vah-Gie-Nah! It’s a support group. V – G – A! Come on. Somebody must have heard of them?”

They turned to each other with quizzical looks, tapped at their cigarettes in hopes of finding their dying cherries and just shrugged. Finally, one of them had the nerve to ask. “V.G.A.? What the hell does that stand for?”

“Violent Girls Anonymous. You know, women who are addicted to…?” I couldn’t even say it. It was like saying that breathing was an addiction. Sure, one breath just leads to the next, but you try going without. “…addicted to beating people up.”

As if on cue, the entire support group took one long step back away from me, and looked off in the other direction.
“You’re not being helpful. Aren’t we all just sisters and brethren on the difficult, painful locomotive ride to Normal Town?”

A stooped, elderly man with a bulbous, red nose, lit his third and fourth cigarettes in his left hand with his first and second cigarettes in his right hand, then stepped forward to help. “You might try the Pentecostals. That’s always were the most yelling and racket comes from.”

“The Pentecostals?” I glanced around the rapidly darkening streets. “Where would I find ‘em?”

“Three buildings past the Seventh Day Adventists, hard left at the Lutherans, just past the Sikhs and you’re right there – straight across from the Santerians.”

“Thank you,” I told him. “I’m so lost around here.”

“Just don’t let them ever take away your left hook.”

I threw a couple of coins into the Cancer Stick fund collection box and hurried on my way.

The stairs to the Pentecostals basement were unlit and I stumbled down them a number of times, bruising my arms and legs in the process. When I got to the meeting room door it was locked and barred. The white, plastic lettering on the black event board of the dimly lit foyer told me I was in the right place. I gave the door a hard kick. It buckled, but did not budge. I kicked at it harder. It made a loud, reverberating metallic racket, but refused to open. Finally, I braced myself putting my hands on the stairwell safety rails and kicking at the weak point between the doors with both of my boots. That did the trick. The two wooden doors burst open—splinters and hinges flying. The metal rod that had barred the door, now hopelessly bent, flew across the linoleum floor and landed just inches away from my new friends with a loud pinging sound.

Casually, I entered the room and introduced myself to the circle of surprised young ladies. “Er, Angry Women’s Support Group?” I plucked chunks of door wood out of my ragged hair and straightened my boots.

“Yes,” the attractive blonde woman with the thick reading glasses said, dryly. “You might try the front entrance next time,” she said pointing to the open doors behind her. “We keep them open and unlocked until midnight.”

“You know, I just might try that. I think I nearly blew a heel out on this back door.” Unsteadily, I walked to the first open, folding metal chair and seated myself, right next to the studious blonde woman. “I know I’m late. Please don’t be upset with me.”

“Of course not,” she said. She flashed a knowing smile as she tapped her #2 pencil lightly against her soft chin. “I’m Dr. Leslie Goodfellow.” She reached out a dainty hand and I shook it vigorously.

“Alexis Bleu. Pleasure to meet you, Leslie. Pleasure to meet you all, actually. It feels good to be in a roomful of women who feel just like I do.” I blushed and folded my hands awkwardly between my knees. I was a bit out of practice on my bashfulness.

“It’s Dr. Leslie,” she corrected. “Alexis, we can get to the introductions in a moment. Vanessa was telling us a story and we would like to hear the rest of it.”

I looked at the other end of the support group circle at Vanessa. She was a street-wise, African-American girl with cornrows and urban overalls, chomping on a toothpick and holding a doll that looked like it had stepped on one too many landmines. “Sorry, Vanessa. You go ahead.”

Vanessa sneered at me before turning her attention back to the rest of the group. “As I was saying…” she started. “Parnell was holding the butcher block over his head, real menacing-like, and says, ‘Think you’re tough, Bitch? I dare you to try that again.’ And he says that, you know, as blood is dribbling down his chin and his left eye is going kinda wobbly.”

“…that’s when you showed restraint?” interjected Dr. Leslie.

“Yeah,” Vanessa said, less than whole-heartedly, “that was when I told him to man-up and put down the butcher block.”

“Did you hear that, ladies?” Dr. Leslie said. There was polite applause from the group of girls. “Vanessa, after your initial loss of composure, you handled that trying situation very well. We’ve seen you grow up very fast in these last few months.”

Vanessa quietly acknowledged the compliment.

“Did Parnell pick the butcher block up before or after you readjusted his eyeballs?” I was curious.

Vanessa paused, caught by surprise. “Uh, before.”

“So,” I continued. “After you clocked him in the face, he was still holding the butcher block, threatening to use it?”

“Yeah, that’s right.” I could see Vanessa’s fists tightening by her sides. “What are you getting at?”

“Hmmm,” Dr. Leslie intervened. “Perhaps Alexis, what you mean to say is there is something Vanessa could have done other than hitting Parnell when he picked up the butcher block?”

“Well, busting him square in the chops wasn’t the worst thing she could have done,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” Vanessa said, waiting cautiously to see where I was taking this.

“But you could have made a pre-emptive move before he ever got his hand near the butcher block. Perhaps a handy appliance or piece of furniture, or if he was within kicking distance, you could have…”

“Er, Alexis, I think we need to stop right there.”

“A pre-emptive move?” Vanessa’s face went red and her eyes narrowed. “You’re insinuating that I don’t know what I’m doing.” Oh, her dander was up now. Chairs screeched across the floor as they were pushed back by their occupants.

“Ladies!” Dr. Leslie demanded in a stern voice. A lock of dirty blond hair slipped out of the tight bun that she kept it tied in with two more pencils.

Slowly, we returned to our seats.

Dr. Leslie turned to her. “Vanessa, we’ve made a lot of progress. You don’t want to surrender your button when you’ve made it this far, do you?

“No, Ma’am” Vanessa said.

She turned to me. “Alexis, don’t think you’re the first young woman to come in here with some attitude.”

“I was completely sincere. I know what I would’ve done in that situation.”
“I’m sure you would have,” Dr. Leslie said. She tapped her chin again and leaned back in her chair. “Perhaps this would be a good time for those introductions. It is important for Alexis to know that she is not the only woman in this world with this problem. Vanessa, since you were talking, why don’t you go first?”

So, I met my bruised little sisters. Vanessa, six bad boyfriends, two bar brawls, three domestic disturbances, a dislocated shoulder and three missing teeth. Next, was the rust-headed housewife—two ex-husbands, one disorderly in public, a broken wrist and a sprained heel. Then the gangly girl from Gujarat, three crippled Johns, six counts of solicitation, one assault, three batteries, a broken knee and a busted hand. High and wide with piercing, blue eyes, the Russian businesswoman—five disgruntled former clients, four misdemeanors and two international incidents—a broken hip, a twisted arm and herniated disk from an awkward kick to the groin. Followed by the spicy Cubano schoolteacher—five previously unhandicapped students, seven lawsuits (three settled out of court), two broken noses, a busted jaw and a total knee replacement. Not to be ignored, the single Somalian mother of six—twelve prematurely retired social workers, four stints in county lockup, two broken legs, a broken arm and torn rotator cuff from overextending on her backswing. Oh, drool! The buxom redheaded Irish barkeep—fourteen ex-patrons, twenty-seven drunk and disorderlies, six civil suits, three stints in county, five stints in city, three broken arms, five broken ankles, a brand new nose, and sixteen new teeth. But, wait, wait, wait! That’s not all. The best was saved for last. Twenty-two year old, spunky kogal girl, straight out of Ginza, and still wearing the school yard uniform to prove it, misdiagnosed, bipolar, schizophrenic—seven convalescing Japanese businessmen, two basket-case boyfriends, three girlfriends laid up in Sister of Mercy Special Trauma Ward, 49 twenty-four hour holds, brass personalized name plate on the entrance to the county mental facility, ten broken arms, six broken legs, three reconstructed faces and a metal plate in her skull with a ten-year warranty.

And Dr. Leslie? A doctorate in psychology, a masters in sociology and a post-doc in Inner-City Women’s Studies, as well as several awards from the National Association of Psychopathy. There were also three tours of duty in Iraq, two in Afghanistan and one in Columbia as a post-traumatic stress counselor; and an entire room in her five-bedroom house devoted just to honors and accolades. Number of bodily injuries – zero. Just pathetic.

“First of all,” I said. “It is a privilege to be here with so many, young and accomplished women. And, you as well, Dr. Leslie.” She grinned in a condescending manner. “Like you, I’ve broken a lot of bones. Dear me, an awful lot of bones. So, many it is difficult to keep track. I’m sure the number is in the hundreds.”

“You look alright to me,” quipped Vanessa.

“Oh, I’m not talking about my bones. I’m talking about other people’s.”

There followed some audible scoffing and mumbling of displeasure and disbelief.

“To be certain, I’ve broken many of my own bones. It would take several meetings to tell you all about them.”

They responded with bouts of laughter, laced with scorn. Then came the cursing and angry looks.

“Ladies,” Dr. Leslie said. “We’re not here to judge. You’ve had your chances to speak, let’s give Alexis our full attention.” She turned to me. “Just try to keep it contained, please. No one is here to prove they are worse off than the others.”

I cleared my throat and did my best to look studious and serious. “Let me just put it this way,” I said. “I keep two books on my nightstand. The first is titled, ‘Diary of Damage Done to Damsels.’ The second one is titled, ‘Diary of Damage Done by Damsels.’ It goes without saying that the first book is a whole lot bigger than the second.”

“Screeeech!” The chairs slid abruptly away from their occupiers backsides. Hackles and fists went up. Verbal broadsides were exchanged.

“Ladies, ladies,” Dr. Leslie commanded. “Everybody just sit down.”

I slowly returned to my seat and order was eventually restored.

Dr. Leslie straightened her shoulder pads and glasses. “Vanessa, why don’t you pass, Alexis, Beaten-up Betty?”

Vanessa grinned wickedly, walked ceremoniously over to me with the pathetic doll in her hands and plopped it in my lap. Beaten-up Betty lived up to her name. She was a disheveled rag-doll with two dull, coal eyes, floating in blue and purple bruises. She had a lacerated ear, a squashed nose, a dented chin, a yellowed soft-collar neck brace, a short arm cast and a long arm cast in a sling, and two long leg casts. All of her limbs were detachable and re-attachable – a pretty neat trick when you can pull it off. Beaten-up Betty didn’t smile, frown or even grit her teeth. I could tell that she just sat were you put her and took everything that was dished out upon her without a peep of emotion.

“Remind you of anyone?” Dr. Leslie asked, removing the thick glasses from her soft, unsullied nose.

“She’s not really my type—too passive.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Dr. Leslie said. “She’s not your type.”

“Didn’t think so.”

“She’s you, Alexis. You’re Beaten-up Betty.”
I had a really good smart-ass answer, but it took off through the window, like a bat-out-of-hell, when I started choking up.

“M-m-m-e?”

“That was you once, wasn’t it?”

Beaten-up Betty wasn’t sitting passively in my hands anymore. She was flailing, struggling to get away, and looking more and more like me by the second.

“You used to take it, didn’t you, Alexis?” Dr. Leslie was stern and penetrating. “You used to get beaten and not hit back.” She wasn’t asking.

“Yes,” I said as I tried to sniff back all the snot welling up in my sinuses.

“Your mother, your father?”

I shook my head as streams of tears cascaded down my face.

“Who then, Alexis?”

“Everybody else,” I blubbered. Beaten-up Betty was now a big soggy mess, but I would not let her go. She was crying too. But I could tell her pain was physical, not emotional, like mine. She was wiggling in my grasp, trying to do something about all the pain while knowing full well it was only going to get worse. I was staring at myself—circa six or seven years-old. I was Beaten-up Betty.

“You’re not all that different, Alexis.” The glasses returned to her face as Dr. Leslie leaned back in her chair. “You’re really just like everyone else here. You are a broken, little girl. You’re damaged and incomplete. You’ve been beaten and torn apart so much, you don’t know where all of your pieces lie.”

“I’m badly broken?”

“You really have no idea. Because, Alexis, you’ve never had a single day in your life when you were complete and whole.”

“Damaged?”

“When we meet again on Thursday, you’ll be on time. In fact, you will show up a little early. Because you want to. Then you’ll get to hold Beaten-up Betty again and you will tell us all about how beaten-up you are.”

“I don’t think I can do it.”

“You will, Alexis. I’m confident. Because if you don’t do it now, it will tear at you for the rest of your life.”

I dragged my emotionally scarred body out of the church basement, through the front doors and out onto the streets of shame. I turned the corner and went down the back alley hoping to avoid confrontation with anybody at that moment. There, I came face-to-face with all of the girls in my new support group, formed in two semi-circles in front and behind me.

“Thanks, guys. You didn’t have to come here to console me.”

The kind smiles were quickly replaced by fiendish grins. It was Sakuta, the short, psychotic girl who stepped forward and ripped a piece of solid, steel rain spout away from its mountings on a brick wall. She waived it around playfully, like a baseball bat.

“Oh, were not here to console you,” Sakuta said. “We’re here to take you down a few pegs.”

BBG – Ch. 2 – One-Eyed Janes and Suicide Queens

dane — Wed, 14 Sep 2011 04:33:23 +0000

I’m beat

I could feel the pain in every muscle and ligament of my body. You don’t realize what a strain it is lifting a two-hundred pound coffee display over your head until the adrenaline wears off. Now the lethargy and dull achiness cascaded down me from head to toe in undulating ripples. To top it off, the elevator in our live-work, factory-conversion loft was broken and I was going to have to climb the five flights of stairs in my beleaguered condition.

“I’m home. Mommy could use a deep tissue massage. She’s sore after working and dragging her beaten carcass up all those stairs.”

“Just be grateful you can walk up stairs.” Cassandra was in a sour mood. “If ever there was a fire up here, I’d roast like a Christmas Day goose.” She’d been down ever since her sports-related injury.

“I’ve had a hard day. I’m bushed and sore all over.”

“A hard day, really? Then how come you’re home early?”

“Er, things were quite slow at the coffeehouse. Now, how about that massage?”

“Don’t look at me,” Cassandra said. “Remember, two broken arms?” She held her arms aloft like useless Dodo wings. “If these ever start working right again, the first one to get some sensual pleasure from them will be me.”
I beckoned to her. “Come here, Honey. Mommy will give you a hug.”

“No! Don’t come near me.” She waived me off. “Nurse Sharon missed her 4:00 appointment and I’m ready to burst. Looks like your turn to empty the coll…”

“Okay, okay. I know. I’ll get it in a minute.”

Cassandra limped to the window, her short leg cast and long leg cast, clunking against the wood floorboards as she labored to get across the room. I love the rainbow look of her fiberglass casts. The long cast on her right arm was bright pink. The complimentary long cast on her left arm was baby blue. The long leg cast was forest green and the short leg cast was lemon yellow. She was poetry in motion as she dragged herself across the vast, former factory floor. “I’m sick of all this healing, and bored to the point of madness. When am I going to be well?”

“Soon, love of my life. Very soon. It usually takes me three to four weeks to heal up from a four-limb accident.”

“It’s been seven weeks, Alexis! Obviously, I am not you. How long does it take a normal person to heal from my kind of accident?”

I collapsed, stomach-first onto the lime-green, reconditioned bean bag chair. Streams of white Styrofoam pellets squirted out in seven different directions. The loft and its furnishings may not have looked like much, but I just loved getting up every morning and watching the smoke billow out of the sulfur-processing plant across the street. I adored following the path of the grit-worn, female factory workers ambling their bent and warped bodies to their jobs at the animal-fat rendering facility just down the way. If only I could convince Cassandra to feel the same. “I don’t know…you’re young, fit, beautiful I may add…”

“Get to the point!”

“I’d say another three weeks. I’m sure the time will just fly.”

“Three weeks? How do I open these windows? I just want to end it all now.”

“Yeah, three weeks. Then they put on progressively smaller casts.”

“Ugh,” Cassandra hobbled back and gently lowered herself onto our second-hand couch, sinking into its deteriorating cushions. We were hoping to afford nicer furniture, but the rent turned out to be much higher than we expected for the middle of the warehouse district. But three thousand square feet and the scent of machine lubricant and the dried-up blood of numerous industrial accidents and I was in condo-conversion heaven. “This is ridiculous. All I want is to be healthy. Is that asking too much?”

I threw up my arms and shrugged. Of course, I knew the answer, but I wasn’t stupid enough to tell her. I unzipped my knee-high, patent-leather, maroon, Rubicon, bonus-incentive apparel boots and tossed them unceremoniously into the corner. Damn, my feet stank! And my nylons were starting to show signs of wear. I rubbed in-between the webs of my toes with my fingers. How is it that my feet were sorer than my back? I didn’t lift that display with my toes.

“So, if you’re home early,” Cassandra reasoned, “because things were so slow, then how come you’re so tired?”

Great, okay, think fast. “It was a busy kind of slow.”

Cassandra impatiently tapped her casted foot on the floor. God how I loved her in that tight t-shirt and short shorts—even though she was absolutely livid with me. Don’t get me wrong, who wouldn’t find her sexy in those form-fitting, wool knit skirts or low-cut blouses she used to wear when she was employed and kept up her appearances? But sometimes, the lived-in look just does it for me, especially when it comes with four gorgeous casts.

“Busy-slow, really? How does that happen?”

“Well…we didn’t have many customers, but the ones we had were very demanding.” I grinned, hopefully.

“Is that a fact?” She threw a dry and hardened sofa pillow at me and it hit me square on the side of the head.

“Ow!” The pain was more emotional than physical. I was so disappointed that she didn’t buy my story.

“I know about your little act of vigilantism.”

“Huh, my what?” I stopped massaging my toes and failed miserably at sitting up in the ever-shifting, bean bag chair.

“You heard me—vigilantism. It’s been all over the news.”

“It has? How cool.”

“Yes, and all over YouTube. One of your patrons caught it on his cell phone camera.”

“Wow, and you can see my face?”

“No. Mostly, it’s just images of a psychotic, six-foot tall, raven-haired maniac beating the living tar out of two poor, defenseless women. I couldn’t see your face, but the flying coffee machine and oak chairs came in real clear.”

“You know, these things are best handled by professionals, not amateur photographers. I’m sure you couldn’t see the fear etched into the faces of our petrified patrons.”

“It’s not funny, Alexis.” Cassandra tried to stand up from the couch, but eventually gave up after several flailing attempts. I ran to help her, but she waived me away. She sat there sulking. “Those women suffered some very severe injuries. They say one of them is in danger of losing her leg.”

“No way. I bet it’s Ginger.”

“You scared a lot of people. On the news, it looked like you completely overreacted. Were you really going to hit that woman with the bookcase?”

“Did they mention the guns? They both had guns. Did anybody call to congratulate me?”

“One vigilante group and two martial arts studios offering you free lessons. That was it.”

“A girl vigilante group?”

“No, an old-man vigilante group,” she huffed. “Girls don’t do that kind of thing.”

“Most girls.”
Cassandra bolted up from the couch, without the slightest difficulty this time. She hurriedly limped over to me and grabbed me around the collar with one hand and somewhere around the side of my abdomen with the other hand. It was the best grip she could manage under the circumstances.

“You have a problem, young lady!”

I was taken aback by her sudden outburst. “A problem? What kind of problem?”

“A pain problem!” She tossed me backwards and I did a half cartwheel, landing ass over tea kettle against the brick wall.

“Ow!” And I meant it.

“You just don’t understand other people’s pain.”

“No, I understand.”

“You don’t understand your own pain.”

“No, I understand. I just happen to enjoy it.”

“Yes, you do, and you’re the only one. The rest of us don’t enjoy pain. You know, that’s considered normal.”

“Normal isn’t always right.” I brushed myself off and helped Cassandra back to the couch. Patiently, I began rubbing her toes, just above the edges of her casts.

“Look at me, Alexis. I have four broken limbs. Most people would consider that a horrible tragedy. You consider it a whole lot of fun.”

“Hey, taxi-surfing is a whole lot of fun.”

“Not when you hit a delivery truck at thirty miles-an-hour.”

“I did warn you.”

“Yes, right after the cable snapped and I lost control. You said, ‘Look out!’ I can’t believe I let you talk me into that.”

“Usually, the cable doesn’t snap, even if the taxi is making an abrupt left turn. You must have been holding the handle…”

“The point is…” Cassandra was getting flush, “…normal, sane people don’t lasso taxi cabs and surf them through busy downtown streets—because it’s dangerous!”

“They don’t know what they are missing.” I finished her toe massage. “Shall I cream your raspberry?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, should I apply some healing ointment to that nasty scab on your bum?”
“No, I want you to listen to me. You’re not normal, Alexis. Your wires are crossed. You’re funny in the head.”

“Me?” I was flabbergasted.

“Yes—you. The pain doesn’t register in here.” She tapped the side of my head with her forefinger. “You break people, you crush people, you cause accidents, you get into accidents and no matter how badly you damage someone or damage yourself, you get up all the same with a big, shit-eating grin on your face, as though nothing happened.”

“Actually, I enjoy it very much. I love pain.”

“But the rest of us don’t. Those poor women in the café are going to have to live with the pain and disfigurement for the rest of their lives.”

“I certainly hope so. They never should have pulled their guns on me.” Then the realization hit me. “Hey, you don’t actually think they are the heroes in all this, do you? And I’m the villain?”

“Of course, I do, Alexis. Those unfortunate women now have permanent, crippling injuries and you’re just sore from beating the crap out of them.”

“Hey, I saved the Rubicon a lot of money.”

“No, you didn’t. The damages came to a lot more than the amount of money in the till. Not to mention there was talk of a liability suit against the Rubicon Corporation.”

“Oh, yeah but, if they had their way…”

“No, that’s it, Alexis. I’m sick of living in this dump…”

“But it’s close to my work.” I pleaded.

“I’m sick of all the injuries I’ve received since I became your girlfriend.”

“All by accident. I never laid a finger on you.”

“True, but the hospital bills are sky-high and I just want to stay healthy—for at least a month.”

“Ooh, I’d kill to have four broken limbs right now.”

“You practically did. Look, I just want to go back to work. I miss the highlights counter at Sepulveda. I was on a career path. I was Store Manager. They were about to make me Regional Manager before you slashed and broke my whole body on the night we met.”

“My heart still skips a beat whenever I think about that night.”

“You need help—therapeutic, brain-cleansing help. You’re not normal. You’re not…” A tear rolled down the side of Cassandra’s pretty pink face and her lips began to quiver, “…mentally healthy. You’re very disturbed and I can’t take it any longer.”

“Wait! Wait! No.” I dried up her tears with the hem of my Rubicon apron. “This doesn’t have to end. I am getting help.”

“You’re not just saying that,” she sniffled.

“No, I mean it. Dotty, my boss, is making me go to group therapy.”
“Group therapy, really?”

“Yes, really.”

“What kind of group therapy?”

“An angry women’s support group. My first meeting is tomorrow night.”

She sniffled again. “That’s great, Alexis. What’s the name of your support group?”

“Oh, it’s real cute—Violent Girls Anonymous, or VGA for short. It kind of sounds like ‘Vagina.’”

Cassandra’s face broke into a wide smile. “This is great. You’re going to get help.”

“I am. I’m woman enough to admit I have a problem and I need help. You know, every VaGinA needs support—a whole lot of support.”

Cassandra threw her casted arms around me and squeezed me tight. “You’re going to get better, Alexis. You’re going to meet women who have the same problem that you do, and you’ll work out your problems together, and you’ll get better. Then, we can move out of this dump and get a real condo in the suburbs.”

“Whoa! Baby steps, baby steps. Let’s take care of my issues first.”

“I love you.” Cassandra was running her fingers softly up and down my back and snuggling her face in my cleavage.

“Does this mean we can have sex?”

“Yes.”

“Great, I’ll get the fluffy-vibrato gizmo. I love that thing.”

Moved to wordpress

castsandfeet — Mon, 18 Jul 2011 05:02:35 +0000

Hey everyone. We moved to wordpress (a little ahead of schedule) and are still working out the new theme and getting all the old info over. Thank you for bearing with us.

Guest Art: Soaked to Capacity

fettered — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 01:12:00 +0000

Bars are sometimes filthy places. I don’t mean that in a moral way, or from a high horse–I mean that materially speaking, they can be pretty disgusting. Grimy bathrooms, dirty floors–if you ever worked at one, like I have, you know that you might be as chaste and delicate as a cherub and still end up sweating and reeking of cigarettes you didn’t smoke and beer you didn’t drink by the time you get home.

So one one hand, you might imagine this young woman as a college girl who, in spite of a recently broken ankle, wanted to hit the town. She wanted to feel the eyes of frat boys on her, the damsel in distress, waiting for a pair of strong arms to carry her to bed. She drinks too much instead, watching patrons less hobbled than her dance, flirt and hook up. She spent the night as the invisible girl in distress, and now, in spite of a couple of pills and yet another drink, she can’t sleep. The ankle hurts too much.

I rather imagine her as a waitress at such a bar, though. That her boss called her up and said it’d been twelve days–that, if she couldn’t come in, he’d had to find another girl who could. No hard feelings, right? She fiddles with her cell phone a moment as she lays on the couch, under a blanket, her ankle propped on throw pillows. The choice between listening making rent, or listening to her doctor and her body is a sad, no-brainer.

So she winces through her pre-work routine, balancing herself at the counter as she applies make up, flinching when she tugs on the gaudy, retro aerobic socks they make her wear. There’s a busy night. Obnoxious customers. Spilled drinks. By the time she gets back to her apartment, her ankle is throbbing like the day they bandaged it. Her clothes and her socked cast are saturated with sweat, beer, and not quite two weeks of wear.

Should she try one painkiller, or two? A glass of wine finds her sheets easier than it finds her throat.

It’s past four. Class is at eight.

———————————

Art notes: I really liked drawing this, difficult as it was (the lines are a bit hard, and the work never comes out as soft or graceful as I’d like). Most of the gloom of the picture crept in as I colored it. One of these days I’ll have to draw a girl with a cast, getting her exposed toes massaged. Finding romance.

This isn’t her, though. Not yet, at least. Maybe she needs a couple of weeks.

If any of you read “Her Vices,” a story I wrote some years ago for another site, this young woman might remind you of the title character, Nicole. While she was a hobbled waitress, too, I don’t think they’re the same girl.

They could share some stories, though. =)

Adapting to heels

castsandfeet — Thu, 03 Feb 2011 05:37:00 +0000

Kathy tries for a walk… By Excilion

Coloring: Toetal War 2

castsandfeet — Sat, 29 Jan 2011 14:37:00 +0000

This illustration by Sl44n3sh, colored by lily goes with the Toetal war story by Lizzy.

Guest Art: Kathy New Heels

castsandfeet — Sat, 29 Jan 2011 05:00:00 +0000

I have been in love with Excilion‘s character Kathy ever since she broke her first toe and I am never disapointed with the creative new contraptions he comes up with for her. Check out these stylish spicas:

BBG – Ch. 1 – A Cup of Joe in a World of Hurt

dane — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 04:13:00 +0000

A Cup of Joe in a World of Hurt

“I’m becoming a better person.

Maybe at first, you don’t notice the difference, but I can assure you it is happening. I’m on the road to wellness. I’m riding the superhighway to normality. Each and every morning when I wake up, I can feel it. I’m getting better, improving: nicer, kinder, more generous, understanding, compassionate, caring, thoughtful, sympathetic, empathetic, involved, concerned, loving…gentle.

Yes, gentle! It’s true. You’re right to be surprised. I’ve been making tremendous strides. I’ve even surprised myself. But you can see the difference right before your eyes. You see, I have a job now—a real job. And a place of my own. I don’t live on the street anymore or in a culvert under a freeway overpass. I’m in a healthy relationship—very serious stuff. The world changes when you turn twenty. I’m an adult now. I have responsibilities. People rely on me. I’m a very important part of this community.

Just look at this job I hold. Hundreds of people depend on my every day. People in my position fulfill an important public function. Why without us, workers all over the world would fall asleep at their desks, behind the wheel of large vehicles or around some very dangerous machinery. Never underestimate the importance of your local barista. I keep people alive—alive and caffeinated—and very, very happy.

I’m a changed woman. Isn’t that obvious?

…Is that you shaking your head? I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s so difficult to tell. With all that thick plastering around your neck and those numerous bandages all about your face…you’ll just have to forgive me if I can’t tell if you are commending me…or…or…something else.

Oh! Oh. I see. You’re motioning for your drink. Here I was, busy telling you I’m a changed and responsible person, and I nearly forgot your order. Hold on, I’ll get it. Oh, damn these tight barista uniforms—always riding up my ass. Just one sec. It’s coming. Here it is. One Cinnamon Caramel Dolce Macchiato on its way. Yow! That is scalding hot. It’s burning my hands just holding it. Hey, hot stuff coming through everybody—clear a path. There we go. Let me just blow on it to cool it off a little. Pheeeeewwww!

You’re about to see what a great barista I am. I think it is just great that you went so far out of your way to visit me here. I was thinking that with all the stuff that went down at the institute and then later at my apartment, that, uh, I don’t know, that maybe you might still hold a grudge against me. But let me tell you, your appearance here at Rubicon Café #2387 is doing wonders for my self-esteem. I really have to congratulate you, Dr. Kim. You’re a real professional—a credit to the entire psychiatric industry. Your presence is reinforcing all of my good behavior traits.

Now, it is not going to be easy for you to drink this. I’ll need to maneuver between your two arm casts. You know, you kind of remind me of the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz, with both your arms jutting out like that. Oops, you don’t mind if I brace myself on your leg cast, do you? There, much better. Say, you’ve got some muscular thighs underneath all that plaster. Have you been working out? You know, before your little, uh…incident? Yes, I thought so. I can see it in your exposed spots—around the stomach and just above the hips, you look very tone, very defined. It’s difficult for us chesty girls to get definition, isn’t it? But underneath that thick cast I can see it.

There we go. Hold on. One more blow ought to do it. Pheeeewwww. Oh my. You’re shaking, Dr. Kim. Why are you shaking? I think this beverage is quite cooled off. I’d be willing to test it on my wrist. Isn’t that how they used to test baby formula? Please, stop shaking. As I said, I’m a new girl. I will never do anything malicious again. Now, I’m very sorry about your present condition, but just remember—it was you who broke into my apartment. You were the one wearing that sexy, slinky Ninja outfit. You tried to break my neck. You tried to hit me over the head with the brass umbrella stand and take out my knees with the Cuisinart. That was a perfectly normal reaction for me to toss you against the fireplace mantel, high kick you in the hip, neck and upper-arm and heave you down the stairwell. If it had been me breaking into your house, I’m certain you would have treated me the same. A home-invasion can be a very traumatic affair. I will add that although I found your surprise visit incredibly sexually stimulating, I did not enjoy beating you to a pulp. Not in the least.

So, please, stop shaking…thank you. Okay, er, uh…this is going to be awkward. I’m thinking the best angle is for me to sit in your lap and work my way in-between your double-shoulder torso cast. Not to worry. I won’t try anything untoward. Stop shaking. Dr. Kim, you’re making this more difficult than it needs to be. You did engage the brakes on the wheelchair, right? Hold still. Soon you’ll be in gooey, caramel macchiato heaven.”

“Gaaaaahhh! Eeeeeeee! Yiiiiii yiiii, mff, mff!”

“Oh drat! Now, you made me spill your macchiato.”

“Yeeeeeeeee! Haf, haf, haf, yaaaahh.”

“You see what you’ve done, Dr. Kim? You made me spill scalding hot macchiato onto your toes and down the pads of your feet. Why it must be dribbling down all the way underneath your cast and pooling up around your heel.”

“Yiiiii-aaaaah! Haf, haf, haf liquith!”

“Yes, I know it’s hot. A macchiato must be served at the appropriate temperature. It’s corporate policy. Hold on, let me think. Stop squirming around in your casts so much—it’s distracting me…I’ve got it! Stir straws! We need stir straws.”

I ran to the condiments trolley and grabbed two fists full of long, plastic stir straws. Artfully, I piped them together forming one long, skinny straw. I ran back to Dr. Kim and poked my contraption down the toe-opening of her leg cast, in-between her soft, pink feet and the ribbed stockinet.

“Gah, gah, woo, woo, wooft, hee, hee.”

“I had no idea you were so ticklish, Dr. Kim. I just have to say that I find the whole idea of a doctor of psychiatry being so ticklish, well, let’s just say, ‘unsavory,’ and leave it at that. Back to the matter at hand. Hold tight, Dr. Kim. This is going to require a lot of slurping.”

“Sloooop, gurfl, gurfl, gurfl. Sloooop, gurfl, gurfl, gurf.”

“Ow! That’s still hot! I can’t believe you’ve been sitting in that pool of hot caffeinated beverage for all this time. Sloooop, gurfl, gurfl, gurfl. Hey, that’s really good! I must say, you have lovely, lovely feet. But I had no idea they would be so delicious mixed with caramel macchiato. I’m gonna suggest this to Corporate.” BR>

“Sloooop, gurfl, gurfl, gurf.”

“Alexis, what are you doing?”

“Dotty?”

It was my boss. Using the armrest of Dr. Kim’s wheelchair to brace myself, I stood up and brushed the dirt off of the knees of my nylons.

“Nothing. Just helping this customer with her Macchiato.”

“By sucking it out of her leg cast?”

“We just had a small spill—nothing to get excited about.” I fanned Dr. Kim’s burnt foot with the hem of my barista apron.

“Guff, hmph, hefffff, dthy, dthy!”

Just as I feared, Dr. Kim recognized Dotty, her former subordinate.

“Do I know that woman? She looks vaguely familiar under all those bandages.”

“Hmph, hefff, dthy, dthy!” Dr. Kim was wiggling wildly within her casts, eyes popping for attention behind the rims of her gold-wire glasses.

I was concerned my little mishap with the macchiato might be misconstrued.

“Dotty, you must remember one of our dearest customers—Tiffany Hwang? Member of our Frequent Buyers Club? Had a terrible hang-gliding accident? Surely, you remember?”

“No,” Dotty said dryly. She exhaled deeply, while Dr. Kim continued mumbling beneath her bandages. She turned to her. “Is that your nurse outside, enjoying a cigarette, Miss? Why don’t I bring her in and she can tend to your foot. It looks like the skin is starting to blister.”

“Dotty, I can…”

“That’s enough, Alexis. Why don’t you go back behind the counter and get our dear customer a gift to show our hospitality and how highly we value her patronage?”

I ran back to the front counter and returned with one of our establishment’s most prized gifts. “Here you go. It’s a Rubicon Express Card. I even marked you down for two purchases. Eight more and you get the eleventh purchase…”

“Not that gift, Alexis. You know, the Delfino Double Espresso Maker?”

“The silver one?”

“Yes, yes. Go get it.”

Dotty went to retrieve Dr. Kim’s nurse, while I went to the back supply closet to get the Delfino. It was an industrial-sized espresso maker. The Facilities team was going to install it next week. Bending my knees, I hauled up the great metallic monstrosity. It weighed almost as much as Dotty. Slowly, carefully, I inched my way over to Dr. Kim, whose eyes widened in anticipation of receiving such an awesome gift. I gently placed the hulking machine on her lap, balancing it delicately upon the top edges of her long leg casts.

“Ooooohfffff, helfffff, uuuuugggph.”

“You’re gonna love this baby,” I said. “I mean, once your arms are all healed. It makes out-of-this world espressos.”

“Uuuaaaahggg!”

I turned around to notice an enormous line of impatient customers. “Sorry, I’ve got to run.” I left Dr. Kim straining under the tremendous weight of the spectacular Delfino, maker of two cups of percolated perfection, while I ducked behind the counter to take on an angry crowd waiting anxiously for their caffeine fix.

“Who’s next?”

A smarmy, young businessman, dressed in an expensive, tailor-made, three-piece suit, Bluetooth sticking out of his ear, stepped forward.

“Alexis, Beautiful, I’ll have my regular.” He flashed his Rubicon Express Card, and grinned a wicked toothsome, nothing but cosmetic caps, smile that made me want to wretch in the water pitcher. I glanced at it. Handwritten in precisely drawn letters was his full name, his regular drink and a piece of information we never ask for—his cell phone number.”

“One double Americano with extra sugar coming right up, Mr.…Mr….” I looked at the card again. “Mr. Bravestone.” Ugh! You’ve got to be kidding me?

“Call me Tom. No need to be formal, Sweety.”

I glanced at the card again. “It says here ‘soymilk, no fair trade.’ Sorry, but all of our soymilk is fair trade.”

“That stuff is so rank. Can’t you get me some real soymilk, Honey?”

“Alexis!” Dotty yelled from the front of the café, “Get the Delfino off of this poor woman’s legs, they’re crushed enough as it is.”

“Sorry. She had no good hands to hold it with.”

Tom leaned forward like a sly fox in hen house full of crippled chickens. “You don’t have to take that crap,” he whispered. “I’m loaded. Just hop over that counter and run off with me.”

Gross! “Here’s your Double Americano.” I handed him the beverage as though the cup and its contents had a bad case of leprosy. “I gave you an extra large shot of fair-trade soymilk, compliments of the house.”

Undeterred, he beamed widely, flashing his pricey porcelain teeth. “Thanks, Babe. God, I love tall women.”

“Alexis! Help me with the Delfino.” Dotty was making no progress removing the heavy machine from Dr. Kim’s crushed lap.

As I moved to assist her, the front door of the Rubicon crashed open and two rough and wild-haired women wearing long, black trench coats burst into the café.

“Arms up in the air and asses up against the wall!” the fair-skinned, taller woman with the frizzy ginger-colored hair demanded of those present. She was brandishing a sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun, and sticking it under the noses of customers who were too slow to comply. Her short, dusky-skinned mate with the swirl of black and auburn tresses had a Glock pistol and was pointing it menacingly in the face of Dotty, who unwisely always wore her ‘Shift Supervisor’ badge with great pride.

The ginger-woman forced her way to the front and shoved the sawed-off barrel of her gun in my face as I watched her companion intimidate my boss. “You too, Barista-babe, hands up in the air.”

Oh, finally, some drama. I was getting so bored.

“Are you robbers or are you terrorists?” I asked, rather matter-of-factly.

“What? Are you some kind of smart-ass?” Ginger said.

“Two different protocols. It’s all in the corporate Rubicon policy and procedures manual, which I happen to have committed to memory. If you are robbers, we instantly surrender all of our cash on hand. But, if you are terrorists…”

“Would you shut up?” I could see that Ginger had a short fuse. “We’re insurance brokers and we’ve come to collect our premium.” She turned to our quivering patrons. “Now, I want to see everybody’s noses and knees down on the floor. No exceptions!”

“Oh my god! Dotty, can you believe it? Real, live extortionists. We’re being shaken down. How exciting!”

Dotty could not believe it. She was almost as surprised by my reaction as Dusky and Ginger.

“How do I get you to shut up?” She thrust the dirty barrel of her gun into my mouth. “Am I going to have to blow your brains out?”

With a mouthful of metal, I said, “That probably won’t do it.”

That response brought Dusky charging to the front counter.

“You better shut your trap, Bitch, or I’m gonna make this Glock your new boyfriend.” She made a crude gesture with the Glock and her crotch that insinuated she would insert her gun and discharge it in a very unwelcome place.

“You better get in line behind this gentleman,” I said, motioning to Tom, who was pressed flat on the floor. He nervously shook his head, sweating bullets and wiping the carpet with his nose.

Ginger turned to Dusky. “Alright, let’s blow her face to pieces, get our insurance money and beat it.” She looked at Dotty, and then me. “We take what we want, when we want it. And if somebody gives us shit, we blast a big whole through them.” She cocked her shotgun. “I say it’s time we made an example of you.”

I studied Ginger. Tall, slender, soft hands, expensively polished finger and toenails, skinny legs, nice rack—been a criminal since she was 18, possibly 19. I studied Dusky. Short, unkempt hair, grit around the edges of her hand, fingernails filed down to the nub, premature age-lines, sallow eyes, nose broken and rebroken, hales from the scariest section of the barrio–born into criminality.

Since the great bullet famine of three years ago, a double-loaded weapon job was unheard of. That meant that there was one bullet between them. Was it the six to seven thousand dollar Glock nine millimeter, lead-jacket or the twenty large, brass-hulled, shotgun shell?

Every object is a weapon in the right hands.

Dusky tightened her grip and moved forward.

A long, lithe arm shot like a rattlesnake on the attack toward the boiling pot of Sumatran White Mountain. A decanter full of steaming hot coffee hit Dusky viciously across the face—second and third degree burns of the nose, cheeks and forehead, temporary blindness in the left eye.

“Aaahhh!”

Ginger knowing the jig was up, flipped her sawed-off shotgun around and swung the stock of the gun at me. Duck right, slide left. Follow-up with backhand of the now empty decanter across the face. Blood and glass fly. Broken nose, broken cheekbone, severe bleeding from several deep gashes over right third of face.

“Oh, shit! Aaaaahhh!”

Dusky whirls around, skin hanging off the bones of her face, discharges Glock, which harmlessly takes out Post-Modern, pastoral, knockoff painting hanging on opposite wall. Glass scone jar clocks her in the ear, busting mandible, perforating ear drum, tearing ligaments between third and forth vertebrae. She staggers, grabs the blackjack from the holster on her hip and raises it. Triple-drip Weston coffeemaker flies off back shelf. “Tongg!” And unplugs itself from wall just before crushing Dusky over the right shoulder. “Crack! Sprock! Crackle!” Collapsed sternum, broken collarbone, decimated shoulder blade and humerus.

“Aaaaah! Aaaaah! You fuckin’ psycho-bitch!”

Ginger, blood streaming, pulls out billy-club, swings errantly with left-hand, unwisely revealing she is not a Southpaw. Back-up diagonally, two steps, hoist electronic cash register over head. “Tongg!” Register unplugs itself and drops down on Ginger’s right thigh. “Crunch! Snap! Criiick!” Pulverised pelvis, shattered femur, flattened patella. “Aaaiiiii. Aaaahh. Oh, fucking shit!”

Dusky, stumbling errantly, arm out-of-socket, grabs elderly patron—Mrs. Miltonberry, by the throat. “Give us the money you owe us, or I’ll strangle this cunt!” Red shoes fly over counter, followed by long legs and skinny torso. Thick, high-heel platforms shoot through the air, landing underneath right 36 C-cup breast. “Crenk!” “Ker-tunch!” Ribs 4, 5, 7, 9 and 10 snap like twigs. Dusky falls hard on the floor, shattering right wrist and leg ankle as she lands awkwardly on newspaper rack. “Aaawwwwk! You fucking whore! I’ll keeeeel you!”

Ginger, dragging unresponsive right leg, warbles toward an empty table, grabs a dirty cappuccino mug smashes it against the table and threatens to “cut your beating heart out of your slutty, cross-bred body…” Solid oak chair levitates off ground, twirls around and dive bombs into Ginger’s left calf—tibia shatters in six locations, fibula crumbles, ankle twists grotesquely.

Two hundred-pound merchandise display floats off of floor.

“Stop! Stop! You insane witch! Stop!”

Was that Ginger or Dusky?

“Stop, Alexis! What are you doing?” It was Dotty.

“Don’t hit me anymore,” pleaded Dusky. She pulled some crumpled and bloody bills out of her trench coat pocket. “It’s mob money, not mine. Take it. There’s at least three to four thousand there.” She burst into big cry-baby tears. “Just stop hitting me.”

I looked at Ginger. “I have twenty-six or twenty-seven hundred. It’s all from our other jobs today.” She dropped the dripping red currency on the floor where it scattered and stained the carpet. “I swear. I will never set foot in this place again…if I’m ever able to walk.”

“Alexis.”

“Yes, Dotty?”

“Put down the merchandise display.”

“Okay, Dotty.” I gently set down the heavy display.

People were crying. Not just Ginger and Dusky, but Mrs. Miltonberry, most of the patrons, Dr. Kim and her nurse and of course, Tom.

I looked around at the broken chairs and tables. “Don’t worry, Dotty. I’ll clean up this mess.”

Dotty, exhausted, collapsed against the nearest wall and let out a deep, emotional sigh. “What am I going to do with you, Alexis?”

“Three weeks of toilet duty?”

Dotty, silent, went tomato-red in the face.

I slowly tiptoed back behind the counter. “I’ll just go back to what I was doing.” I brushed the chips of furniture wood, decanter glass and human bone off of my barista’s uniform and placed the horribly dented cash register back on the glass counter and plugged it in.

“Ahem, can I help whose next?”

Tom, dry-eyed and more composed now, slithered forward. “I love a tough gal. Go out with me.”

“I could geld you with my toenails in three seconds flat.”

Knees chattering and hands around his groin, he reached for his cup of Double Americano and slowly shuffled out of the coffeehouse, his back to the door, the entire time.

I felt something burning into the side of my face. Immediately, I thrust my hand up to discover no implement or ray of heat. Then I saw it. It was Dr. Kim, her scorching glare piercing my heart and soul. I had once been her proud experiment—her shining project. She was going to put an end to violence in the world.

Jesus—how I failed her.

The grin of self-satisfaction from telling Tom off, melted from my face.

“Tomorrow, Dr. Kim. I’ll be that better person tomorrow.”

Guest Story: The Tragic Shoes – Part III

dane — Sat, 20 Nov 2010 02:11:00 +0000

Serafina, leader of the dangerous Loco Mucho Loco Senoritas, has just laid eyes on history’s most fabulous shoes. She absolutely must have them. Sadly, her feet are too large to fit into the Grimaldi Heartfires. However, her dear friend, gangbanger nemesis and amateur orthopedic surgeon, Alexis Bleu, has a simple and almost relatively painless solution to Serafina’s conundrum.

“Do you or don’t you? What’s it going to be, Babe?” My arms felt like rubber. My collarbone was aching. It isn’t easy keeping a fifty-pound sledgehammer perched upon your shoulder. “I haven’t got all night.”

“Will it hurt?” Serafina asked innocently.

“It’s just a sledgehammer. And you’ll have a soft towel beneath your feet.”

“Will that cushion the blow?”

“Can a flea halt a charging rhino? The towel is to keep your blood from getting all over the Ottoman.”

Serafina whined, “I just want to try on the shoes. Can’t I do that without getting my feet modified?”

“No way, Sister! You’re not cramming those humongous size sevens into my precious Reynaldo Grimaldi’s.”

Tears streamed down Serafina’s rosy cheeks. With her hands tied behind her back there was little she could do staunch the flow. “I want those shoes!” she blurted out.

Gingerly, I dropped my heavy hammer down on the wooden floor. Yet, I still managed to shatter two of the flooring planks. “Crap! I promised my victims I would care for this house as if it were my own.” I pulled up a seat next to Serafina, and in a comforting gesture, put my long arm around her soft, constricted, shoulders.

“It’s a Grimaldi, Sweetie. How often does God decide to descend from the heavens, take on human form and become a fashion shoe designer?”

Serafina shrugged.

“That’s right, Deary, not often. Once to design the exquisite, glorious Roman sandal and also to clear up some prickly issues in the Levant, and then this last time when he came down in the form of the master Neapolitan shoe artist just a few short decades ago. That’s it! When you put on a pair of Heartfires you’re not just going out for a night on the town, you are blessing everyone who sets eyes on that shoe with a transcendent, life-altering experience. The Heartfire is the only shoe that can redeem people’s souls.”

Serafina sniffled. The tears that had cascaded down her cheeks were now dribbling down her slender throat. “Alexis, I’m worried about how my feet will look after you’ve rearranged them.”

I looked down at her floppy, clown-like, size sevens. “Let me put your fears to rest, Serafina. For I am a master artist in the medium of foot-shaping. If some of my greatest works were not hanging at the end of some very fortunate ankles, they’d be hanging in such illustrious places as the Louvre, the Met, the Getty or the Uffizi. I’ve received so much fan mail from happy customers I had to cancel all of my email accounts and delist my name from several services. I hardly go near a computer anymore.”

“Really?”

“May God shatter all of my bones if I’m lying.” I emphasized my point by crossing myself three times.

“Er, that’s not exactly an oath of believable conviction, Alexis.”

“Ugh!” I couldn’t help but let out a heavy sigh of despair. I was losing her. You just wouldn’t believe how difficult it can be talking a girl into smashing all the bones in both her feet with a sledgehammer. Even with the offer to wear the world’s most resplendent foot apparel, it was still a difficult sale.

I picked up the shiny, scarlet Heartfire and held it in the palms of both my hands–just inches away from Serafina’s slightly bruised face. The shoe glowed with a warm, supernatural light as if possessed of a soul. The light cast a passion play of shadows on the peeling painted wall behind us, and our silhouettes acted out a heartwarming romantic tragedy.

“The Heartfire is no ordinary shoe,” I began. “It has changed the course of history. It has endowed its wearer with special powers.”

“Special powers?”

“Yes, special powers. One of the first owners of the Heartfire was a shy, young woman named Louise Ciccone. Now, Louise was a down-on-her-luck nobody, struggling in her singing career in lower Manhattan. But one day, she accidently took home the Heartfires after attending a no-shoes-allowed, fashion party in Tribeca. You see, the shoes were all laid out in the foyer. The former owner was peeved to say the least. The next day, Louise was discovered by a successful record producer, obviously bowled over by her extraordinary shoes. Well, you know the rest of the story. Ms. Material Girl…” BR>

Serafina gasped. “You mean these shoes once belonged to Madonna?”

“Practically, a piddling nobody,” I continued. “One day, after recording many successful albums and a few that will go unmentioned; she was rehearsing a dance number with her back-up singers, when she carelessly let her eyes off of the Heartfires. A sneaky Mezzo-soprano wasted no time and purloined the apparel before running off to L.A. Madonna hardly knew what hit her. And, do you know who that dastardly back-up singer was?”

“Tell me it isn’t…”

“Yes, Beyoncé Knowles. That back-up band was called Destiny’s Child and once the great enlightened one was in possession of the Heartfires, she ditched those sappy losers and charted a solo career destined for the stars. She went on to become an unparalleled singer and dancer, as well as a mediocre actress, but you can only ask a shoe to do so much.”

“I love Beyoncé’s shoes.”

“But the story doesn’t end there. In the middle of her last tour, the private jet that carries all of Beyoncé’s clothing, jewelry, and most importantly her shoes, hit some bad turbulence flying through a tropical storm and went down in a catastrophic ball of flames. The crew and all of Beyoncé’s highly-paid security personnel perished in the vicinity of the island of Barbados. Beyoncé was certain the precious Heartfires were lost, but days later the miraculous shoes showed up on the unflattering feet of an uninviting teenage girl vacationing at the time on the nearby island of Martinique. Serafina, that awkward teen with the two left feet was named Stefani Germanotta. But you might better know her as…”

“Oh my God—Lady Gaga! Those shoes rubbed bunions with Lady Gaga?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “And we both know what became of her. Which means the question you have to ask yourself, Serafina, is—do I want to be the next single-name, singing and dancing phenomenon?”

“Yes!” The words leapt from her lips.

“Excellent. Then we both agree it just ain’t going to happen with those Sideshow Bobs that you call feet. So, let’s get you started down the path toward fame, riches and premature rehab. What do you say?”

Serafina gritted her teeth. “Will there by anesthesia?”

I was ready to whack her across the head if it wouldn’t have spoiled my chances of slamming her feet with a sledgehammer. I patiently gathered myself. “I’m sorry you have forced me to resort to such drastic actions.” I took the Heartfire by the heel and clutched the back of Serafina’s head by grabbing a handful of her soft, luxurious, brown hair. I forced her nose into the opening of the shoe and made certain she got a good, long whiff of starlet stench.

She tried to escape my grip and gasp for clean air. But I held firm. Her eyes rolled upward and she wheezed and coughed.

“Can you smell that?” I said forcefully. “That’s Madonna’s feet. She rarely bathes them. Sniff fully. That’s a good girl. Those are Beyoncé’s toes. She never scrubbed between them and she had notoriously bad toe-jam. Breathe in. Breathe out. Do you know what that odor is? That’s Lady Gaga’s feet. You really don’t want to know where those have been.”

I pulled the shoe away from Serafina’s face. An other-worldly look came across her, as though the Devil himself were possessed. “Crush my feet,” she demanded. “Crack them, break them, pulverize and shatter them. Do it now!”

I wasted no time. Jumping from my chair, I grabbed my magic marker and meticulously drew two big bull’s eyes – one on each foot. “Now, you’re talking, Sister.”

“Hurry. Do it before I come to my senses.”

Gathering my strength, I heaved the mighty sledgehammer to my shoulder. I adjusted my grip on the handle until I was certain that I had a perfect hold on it. With the shadow of Thor’s daughter advancing across the determined face of Serafina, I approached and looked down upon her. “Let’s up the ante.”

“What? Are you nuts? Just break my feet. I beg you.”

“In good time, Lover. Let’s just examine the situation a little more closely. I’m about to give you the kind of beautiful feet that most women would die for; not to mention, that I am throwing in my highly cherished and utterly irreplaceable pair of Grimaldi Heartfires for…”

“What? What?”

“Easy Princess.” I cleared my throat. “Ahem. The only minor concession I am asking for in return for this gracious gift, is the entire Industrial District from the Potash Processing Plant to the Fertilizer Factory. What do you say?”

“Yes! Yes! Whatever it is that you want, you can have it all. Now crush my feet before I change my mind!”

I love a girl who’s decisive. “Alrighty then.”

In one fell swoop I lifted the heavy sledgehammer high above my head and in an arcing movement brought it crashing square down on the target drawn onto her left foot as Serafina’s eyes bugged out of her head. Crack! The sound of bones breaking filled the tiny farmhouse room like glass shattering against brick. The hammer reverberated like a tuning fork sending jolts of pleasure up both of my arms.

“Gaaiiii!” Serafina screamed like bloody-murder. She bolted upright in sudden shock and horror and a disturbing snapping sound shot out from her neck.

“Perfect,” I said proudly. I went to wipe the sweat from my brow but my hands were still numb from the ringing. “Two injuries for the price of one.” Flexing and bending my hands, the feeling finally returned as Serafina continued to howl in pain. I drew the hammer above my shoulder once more.

“No, no, no! Stop Alexis. I’ve changed my mind,” she pleaded in between tears and profane exclamations of pain. “This is far worse than I ever imagined.”

“Too late,” I said curtly and wasted no time in bringing the slightly dinged, but still monstrously maniacal hammer down upon Serafina’s defenseless right foot. Bones snapped like fragile little popsicle sticks. The Ottoman cratered under the blow while Serafina howled like a distraught she-wolf.

“Aaaauuuggh!” Her neck creaked as she jerked forward and back. “Stop! Stop! Stop! For the love of God, stop! I can’t take this anymore.”

“It’s too late now, Dear. You can’t stop the surgeon in the middle of the surgery. We’ve still got the post-op.” I rummaged around and pulled out a ball-peen hammer from my orthopedic toolbox.

“No! No!” she implored.

“I’m embracing my inner Rodin,” I said as I went quickly to work on the periphery of her feet like a cobbler prematurely released from the asylum.

Serafina snorted and sobbed

I drew out from my toolbox a platinum railroad spike. “This won’t hurt at all…” I said, placing the spike up against one of her few unbroken metatarsals, “…compared to what you’ve just been through.” It was difficult working with her recently malformed feet, lovely brown skin, now lumpy, purple and spider-webbed with splattered arteries. “I’m really quite professional,” I said, chipping away at her few remaining healthy bones.

After five hours of exhausting effort and a great deal of screaming, until the poor thing was all screamed out, I put down my tools to admire my work. My chest swelled with pride. Not a metatarsal left unaltered. Soon Serafina would have the most beautiful feet in all of the land. I brought her back to consciousness with a dab of ammonia under the nostrils.

“Gak!” she spluttered.

“Time for the binding, Pumpkin.” I produced a silver tray piled high with rolls and rolls of athletic tape. Against Serafina’s vehement protests, I began binding her feet ever so tightly, taping and taping, forming her hideous size sevens into something wonderful, magical—breathtaking and inspiring. Ever so slowly, the shattered bones pushed closer together.

Following more than an hour of this heavenly ritual, I cut loose the ropes that had kept her legs tied together. Her white, sheathed feet were completely wrapped from pad to heel. From the back room I retrieved my medical bag of soft stockinette, cotton padding and plaster bandages.

“Okay,” I said triumphantly. “Time for the casts.”

Carefully and methodically, I applied the cotton padding over the tight stockinette. Then came the warm, wet bandages. I wrapped each horrendously damaged foot with devoted precision and expertise.

Serafina purred like a contented kitty. “Oh Alexis, you’re so talented. How could I have had any doubts? My damaged feet feel so warm and cozy in these thick plaster casts.”

As the plaster dried, I untied the ropes that had kept Serafina’s arms and hands bound in place behind her back. With her full compliance and a warm grin that melted my heart, she allowed me to place a soft cervical collar around her badly sprained neck, kissing my ears as I adjusted the Velcro tabs in the back.

“You’re such an incredible artist, Alexis.” Serafina rubbed at the warm, moist plaster cast while her other hand wandered up the inside of my thigh. “Where did you learn so much about anatomy?”

“The school of hard knocks, you could say.” I blushed.

Serafina was nibbling on my kneecaps and tracing delicate figures of mayhem and murder into my left upper hip. “Now that I’ve gotten my dessert, what about you? What would you like for dessert,” she said in a husky voice that melted the paint from the walls.

“My dessert?” I said humbly. “But, you’re my guest and I’m your host. I could never ask…” At that moment, Serafina rubbed me ever so seductively in a place that I will leave to your imagination. “…Wooooo. Alright, Sister Souljah, tell me what you had in mind.”

“Mmmm…I would like to take a leather whip and thrash you across your…”

“…Eggs?”

“Yes, please.”

“Scrambled, poached, fried or boiled?”

Serafina was kicking back at her desk, admiring the view from the den of her beachfront condo. “Spanish Omelet, please. And no going light on the chili sauce.”

I watched the butter sizzle in the bottom of the black, iron skillet. “You got it.” I cracked some eggs into a bowl and beat them vigorously with a whisk as I stepped into the den to check on Serafina.”

She smiled broadly. “I’m so happy with my new feet. How long before the casts come off?” She was caressing the Heartfire, stroking and kissing it.

“Ten to twelve weeks—just to be on the safe side,” I said in between beatings. “I had to crack an awful lot of bones.”

“Oooh, I can hardly wait. I’m going to give up this gangster girl life and become a big ostentatious pop star—just as soon as my feet are healed.”

“You’re not going to forget about me, are you? You have to promise to send me backstage passes to all of your shows.”

“I’ll never forget you, Alexis, never.” She hugged her left Grimaldi like it was a long, lost puppy. “I want to see the other shoe.”

“Of course, Darling.” I reached into my purse and pulled out the other shimmering, scarlet Heartfire. Serafina grabbed it like a hungry child, rubbing it against her face and neck.

“I love, love, love you, Alexis. The Heartfire is everything you said it was. You’ve made me the happiest girl ever. I just can’t believe you would part with the world’s most amazing pair of shoes.”

“I know. I find it kind of hard to believe, myself. After all, what’s a few measly square miles of territory when…”

The smile evaporated from Serafina’s face. No longer, was she kissing and caressing the shoe. She clenched her teeth and turned, tomato-red. “Wait a minute,” she growled. “This right shoe is smaller than the left shoe.” She held the two shoes, side-by-side, out in front of me. Indeed, the left shoe was considerably larger.

I cleared the frog from my throat. “Er…yes, the right shoe is a size three. You’re new right foot will be, uh…a size five.”

Her hands were clenched tight enough to crush walnuts. “You tricked me!”

I thought carefully about her accusation. “No, I never said anything about having a matching pair of Heartfires. No way! Do you have any idea how difficult it would be to find a matching pair?”

Jumping to her casted feet, Serafina snarled and waived her crutch menacingly in the air. “I’m going to eat your feet for breakfast!”

I trembled. “Do you smell butter burning?”

Losses and Gains

phatlegs — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 18:27:00 +0000

Browsing the delights of the blog, I’ve come to notice that, in addition to the obvious emphasis on casts, some things are missing, in that a certain amount of ‘amputee-ism’ is also featured.

As this happens to be another aesthetic interest of mine, too – there’s something most compelling about both the absence of the limb and the appearance of the remaining stump – I thought this would be a good opportunity to post some images appropriate to the subject that originally appeared on my ‘drawn2casts’ DA account (noticing the dates inscribed on the drawings, some time ago now).

Please enjoy the following selection of young ladies pictured in what might be considered rather unfortunate circumstances, with one leg in a toes-to-hip cast and having lost the other – although the artist considers them to look pretty good all the same, especially as displaying that pleasing plumpness of figure I seem to find so attractive and desirable…

Any comments welcome!