Mama wasn't the type to stand up for nothin', Daddy would make her black and blue and all the poor bitch did was dust off and make him a fucking apple pie. Ah yes Daddy; the epitome of a real "Southern Gentleman", drunk out of his useless skull and beating anything within a centimetres reach cause nothin' came between he and his Bourbon. He hated Mama for not producing a boy, instead they got a Goddamn harlot 'Lucifer's Whore' he used to say. Maybe it was the lack of love and cruelty that made me who I was and perhaps there was a bit of Lucifer in me after all .
I remember the night all to well for my own liking, there was Mama in a pool of her own blood for being to pants shittin stubborn, lifeless- he had killed her and he meant it- At least Mama would be at peace this time and maybe God would have a shred of pity and give her a set of wings that she so longed for in life.
Out strolled Papa in the yard with the swagger of Sinatra. What a sight; suspenders hanging off a blood stained set of work pants, greying hair tossed about his sun-worn head and the all but emptied out vessel of Bourbon twitching in his bloody mitts. I guess you could blame Normandy for the way he was, most of the men killed for there country and revenge fuelled they're flight. Not Ole” Chester Buss, born of the Bayou – He just liked to watch the way they're eyes went black when he pulled that trigger. Any sane person woulda run right quick from the likes of him but I ain't the type of dame that backs down from a fight, no matter how menacing the fiend.
' You killed Mama !' I held the cool steel between a set of sturdy scarlet lacquered nails.
'We all die someday Pumpkin, the good lord would be thankin' me for doin' his dirty work.' he said it with a smile in his glossed over green eyes.
' I wish them Germans had shot ya down , then mama could've married a real fella.' Then he laughed a hearty chuckle and spat before me .
' Whatcha gunna do? Shoot your daddy down? You alive cause of me.' I was never one for small talk and dillydallying I said nothin else and I simply watched that bullet fly across the barn into that useless skull of his and to my amazement and hard vigil his brain splattered on the cattle -I guess the bastard actually had one ha- nice foolin Daddy.
I thought about that night all too often it plagued my mind so much so I changed my name from Dolly Buss to Iris Kinney. The nightmarish feelings still seemed to fill my psyche with a rage for men just like him. You know the ones; cheap smelling, the ones with a bruised up wife and kids at home while he prowled the streets for a hooker. I thought moving to a big city like New York might have settled this urge to kill , but like a unrelenting tick it started once again. A shifty lookin' fella by the name of Floyd Walters -Handsome enough , dark and brooding with pathetic green eyes. I hated green eyes like a hated a arrogant red moon. This Floyd wasted no time settling himself right beside me and my Gin like a timid fox hoping for some scraps to fall.
“What's a Dame like you doing out so late all by her lonesome ?“ His accent was thick and placid . I looked this man up and down, his tie was undone, suit jacket open and still wearing a fedora atop a head of well behaved brown hair. Must be some kinda wall street junkie, a weak one at that which strayed from the herd. He offered me a cigarette which I took not wanting to spare another of my own. Through the billows of delicious smoke I could smell something else, a scent that cause my head to reel with the lust for blood. I lent right into his ear and whispered a soft reply.
“ You smell like Bourbon . “
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