''Two-fifty for the hour, She's new, give Her a bit of encouragement and She'll... Behave.'' Three-Fingerd Marston had a rasping voice, it was always strained and uneasy on the ear, a result from years of heavy smoking and solvent abuse. He pointed, with the stump of his index finger, to a picture of a desperate looking, young red head.
''I'm not interested in buying any more of your rotting whores Marston.'' The dank hole of a bar was quiet, this pervert was used to the dancing, stale tobacco haze that lingered here; It stained His clothes, His skin, His teeth and gave His lank, charcoal hair a thicker layer of grime. ''What about this one?'' Marston turned the pages of His catalogue, ''She's a favourite, no track marks, yours for two-twenty if you use protection.'' I rememberd this girl, athletic, well-shaped, raven hair, lived a few doors down the road, until a few months ago. Marston put alot of work into acquiring this one.
I kept my voice low, ''I'm looking for someone in particular. You know the regulars at the truck stops? Perhaps they've seen her?' I passed him a couple of notes and a school girl's photo, a home address scribbled on the back, His eyes widened with greed, as if in a playground, and licked His lips. Marston always took well to bargaining.
''Who are you looking for?''
''My Wife.''
Sunday, 21 November 2010
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