Down-Low in Lovell

A bit of creative history, by Riley.

Nice looking woman, she raised her brows and surveyed her own face. Oval and fair with a sprinkle of freckles across the nose. "I am so fucking weary of my cute-ass face."

She was lovely, truly. Little fat, and lean with prominent veins against the muscle. Breasts too, though she tied them down. Nothing flashy, but she could drop a Chevy master cylinder, 12-month warranty, into your hand on demand. She was agile. The latest smart woman at Parts-R-Us down on Highway 36. Nothing much at all like Lydia, the receptionist for the county Lawyer-Predator sited in Lovell. She spun a whiskey and rocks on a supple wrist, watching the lights within. She'd meet up with Chancy down by the bar in a little bit. The Mexican girl who cleaned up for the lawyer worked the motel too, and said some city boys came in with a white Indian.

Lydia was a svelte one, with well styled hair doing its job. Her bones were good, and a touch of Slavic showed. Not Trump level Slavic, but for Lovell, Wyoming, hot. She did a line and thought of the lawyer's baby, aborted a month ago now. She could use some city-boy jive, just to pick her up some. Chancy wasn't much help, protecting her hymen as she did, plus her three cheerfully homicidal brothers patrolling around the fringes. "The man who lays that will walk a minefield," she thought. "Still, she's the closest thing to a pal I have. I just wish she didn't love me so."

The bar sign was a neon martini glass, tilted to the universal angle and hung improbably above a door fit for a bait shop. Big City rocked on his boot heels and looked over by Bad City. "That must be night-life here I'd guess." Bad City examined the highway stretching past, looking for threats, glancing back into the lot behind them, at the Fish Belly Lodge where Pale Indian slept. "If you can hear Willie Nelson, in my experience, it's safe to enter. And Willie is what I hear." They scurried across, and sidled on through the door.

Lydia looked in the mirror and elbowed Chancy, "Game time...heads up."

"Oh shit, Lydia. The short one looks mean as a snake!" Chancy said.

"They all fall. Let's just plumb their depths. The big one is checking me out." 

Otis Shotwell got up and headed for the head, freeing up Lydia's left side and Big City moved right in, "How is it to be lovely, he asked her. Out here on the plains all alone." It's always lonely for a man, lost in beauty.

"Oh fucking barf Lydia, this is, I'm gagging here."

Bad City noted that beauty is a questionable quest. Chancy eyed him as one might a buzzing rattlesnake. "If I said something like that to you, you'd make me explain it," she said.

"Never explain and never apologize," Bad City said, "Want a drink?  Your nipples are looking at me, right through your top. They're staring at me!"

"They've never seen your like before, stranger. They'd like a closer look," Chancy responded.  "Bartender, two shots of Jack with a water back." Chancy poked Bad City in the ribs with a gentle finger, "are you as tough as you seem?"

Otis Shotwell had returned, and now sat beside Bad City, "She's a fucking dyke, dude."

"WHAT! You smelly-ass miner trash. I won't fuck your sorry ass and that makes me a dyke?" Lydia said?

"I don't think of myself as all that tough," Bad City said. "I try to stay smooth."

Lydia laid her finger against Big City's nose. "We should walk out to the parking lot. I have a Ford SUV with talented seats. There's room for all." They rose and walked out into the night, Otis yelling something after them. Lydia tripped on the threshold and face-planted on the sidewalk. "Clumsy bitch," Big City muttered. Bad City rolled her over and began staunching her bloody nose. Chancy snatched the handkerchief away and took over, murmuring in Lydia's ear and walking her off towards the new red SUV parked in a dark corner of the lot.

Big City looked at Bad City, and Bad City looked right back. "Our work here is done." It is, you know. And they slid back across the road, over to the Fish Belly, tip-toeing so as to not wake Pale Indian.

(c) 2018 Riley