when i see you, wanna do you right where you're standing.
i'm a sucker for film noir and pulp fiction. i occasionally dream in high contrast black and white with a whisky-voiced narrator. one of my rp characters, marlowe, was supposed to be more film-noir than he ended up being but that's alright. i love him anyway.
months ago, i mentioned the title of an unwritten pulp fiction novel offhand.
kiss like a bullet. my friend flipped out and demanded that i write it immediately. i didn't. in fact, i didn't even start writing it until quite recently. it's a spur of the moment thing, likely to be written in spurts and then completely rewritten and reformed, but what's a writing journal for if not to introduce bits of underdeveloped writing to the air and let their skin thicken a bit?
it's just the beginning, a developmental drabble. possibly a prologue. but here is a bit on
kiss like a bullet. copyrighted, of course. but you wouldn't steal from me, would you? WOULD YOU.
It all started with a girl. But you already knew that, didn’t you? You probably picked this up and knew that it started with a girl, just like every other story like this. You figured you had me pegged, right? Well sit down, smart ass. I’m the one telling the story.
It all started with a girl. Her name was Kandy, spelled with a K. I should have known when I saw it written out. Snakes have rattlers and girls have their names spelled wrong. Kandy Keen. She swore it was the name her mother gave her and it suited her all too well when it was up on the marquee. Kandy was a singer. Four nights a week, she would slip into a dress and make love to a microphone. Four nights a week, she had men squirming in their seats, licking their chops as those strawberry lips falalaed just for them. They’d line up at her dressing room door with flowers and gifts and letters that would make a hooker blush and she’d just smile and sashay on out of there alone, because seven nights a week, Kandy Keen went home to the same man.
Ike Valentine was a fighter who hardly ever fought. He was too pretty to damage, so they’d draw the crowds to watch him dance and weave once in a blue moon and they pay him to smile nice on the posters the rest of the time. He could’ve been a movie star, they said. Too bad that every time he opened his mouth he brayed like a jackass. Ike was dumb even before they made him a fighter. When he was a kid, the only way he got through school was by making the girl with glasses do his homework for him in exchange for a smile. On the days the girl with glasses was sick, he’d beat the shit out of his kid brother and make him do it. I knew long division by the second grade.
Kandy always told me I was smarter than Ike. “He’s bigger than you, Johnny,” she’d say as she was fastening her stocking. “But you say prettier things. It’s like fucking Shakespeare.” And then she’d kiss me with those strawberry lips that tasted like cigarettes and go on home to Ike. And every time I’d say it was the last time. And every time it was, until she came walking in my door again.
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