The Choking of a Beautiful Girl by the Bastard George Clooney

Pilgrim Press

The Choking of a Beautiful Girl by the Bastard
George Clooney © 2014 by Huck Pilgrim

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Contents

The Choking of a Beautiful Girl by the Bastard George
Clooney

A Small Favor

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Lisa is young. Beautiful. She is a little bit
shallow, but it's not something she notices about herself. She goes
to Mexico for a little fun. Some excitement. She would not have
picked Mexico, because she is a bigot, but her boyfriend takes her.
He tells her it's all on him. Top shelf all the way. He gets the
best room at a fancy casino. It's the presidential suite. But then
something goes wrong, and Lisa finds herself face-to-face with her
own limitations. Fortunately for her, she meets Americo, a Mexican
drug lord who is only too happy to help her imagine herself
differently. Perhaps even as an entirely new person!

The Choking of
a Beautiful Girl by the Bastard George Clooney

She has a delicate face, a slim figure.

Shrugging her elbow from the hand of the man
escorting her, she looks at the brown people packed onto the floor
of the casino. She is nineteen, maybe twenty. Furious. The man at
her arm is old enough to be her father. He is thin, wizened. He
lets his hand float in the air near her arm. He sighs. His lips
press together, making a tight little line under his thick
mustache. He gives her a tired smile and nods in the direction he
wants her to go. He averts his eyes. Folding her sun-kissed arms
under her small breasts, she scowls. She is wearing an expensive
Egyptian cotton top, tight jeans. The top is sleeveless, all the
better to endure the stifling Mexican heat.

Why did it have to be Mexico? Her blue eyes
blaze. When the man reaches for her elbow to get her walking again,
she hisses. Her cheeks have faint acne scars, but her high
cheekbones hide this imperfection.

“Senorita,” he says. His voice is plaintive.
Pleading.

Two men in dark shirts skirt the roulette table,
moving fast. She sees them coming toward her and bites the inside
of her cheek, bracing herself for confrontation. Her nipples
stiffen. She appreciates a good fight, likes it a little rough
sometimes. The man makes a gesture with his head and the two stop.
They are younger than he is. They fold their arms and glare, like
hounds at bay. One of them puffs out his cheeks, blows air from his
mouth.

“Senorita,” the man whispers. He clips the last
syllable, holds out his hand.

Balling her fists, she sets her boney shoulders
and starts walking, her honey-blonde hair shimmering with each
step. Her heels clip on the tile floor. The walls are painted that
horrid orange you find in Mexican restaurants. Why do Mexicans
always use such tacky colors?

She strides through the casino, not really sure
where she is headed or why. The man is behind her now, but there
really is only one way to go. When she exits the casino through an
arch and finds herself in a courtyard, it’s not clear which way he
will want to go, so she stops. He trots to catch up. He points to a
door that leads through a small restaurant with booths against the
walls, small square tables piled into the middle, and young
families milling about. The people here are eating and talking.
Watching the television on the wall. Three children wearing diapers
and little else race past her. One child reaches for her, trying to
put its sticky hands on her designer jeans, palms opening and
closing. It wants money.

She moves a chair between her and the child.

The old man leads her down a hall, then into a
narrow stairwell that circles around. The walls are yellow, peeling
plaster. Bleeding. They go around and around and down a long way,
and then he opens a heavy wooden door at the bottom. She has a bad
feeling but goes inside. Her eyes need time to adjust to the dark.
She can smell incense burning, hear soft familiar sounds. It soon
becomes apparent that there are almost half a dozen people in the
room, some kneeling at the wall.

Is it a church service?

The far wall has holes cut into it, and then a
cock appears in one of the holes. The noises are wet slurping
sounds. Her mouth dries up and a throb of terror fills her
chest.

Turning on her heel, she makes for the door.

The Mexican who led her into this room grabs
her, fingers digging into her arms. She twists an arm free but he
forces her hard against a wall, his hand winding into her hair. She
tries to knee him between his legs, but it’s a glancing blow and he
just laughs. Her head is yanked back as his chest crowds her. His
hand is on her breasts. She whimpers, trying to twist out of his
grasp. His hand sinks past her belly, down between her legs.

Her breathing is getting shallower. Her legs
feel weak.

He cups her pussy.

And then her scalp sings with pain and her
vision goes white—she finds herself on her knees. Putting her arms
over her head, she waits for what will come next. Something heavy
crashes to the floor, but it's over on the other side of the room.
She steels herself for her own heavy blow, but it never comes.
Instead she hears a man exerting himself. Softly cursing in
Spanish. Something is happening in the room, but it's not happening
to her. She raises her head, opening her eyes.

Americo is here.

He is cursing, kicking the old man who tried to
rape her. Americo's dark hair is hanging in his eyes, but he
doesn’t stop kicking. Stomping. Spitting. He looks like a fucking
mad man. She watches him do his violent dance of kick ass. His
boots are white with red tooling. Soon the man on the floor curls
into a ball. He holds one hand out, his fingers splayed.

Americo glares at the old man on the floor, then
looks at her. Using both his hands, he smoothes his wild hair back
on his head. He adjusts the waistband of his pants, pats his ribs,
and finally he says, “Forgive me.”

He is breathing heavily.

She uses her fingertips to help herself stand.
Rising to her feet, her head throbs. One of her heels has snapped.
She takes off both shoes. They are beautiful shoes. Red patent
leather. Ruined. Holding them by the throat, she lets her arms hang
at her side.

Americo takes a deep breath, his nostrils
flaring. He is holding a stained white hand towel. He methodically
cleans his hands with the towel. His breathing returns to
normal.

The man who assaulted her cowers on the floor.
His soft moans mix with the wet noises in the room, the occasional
moan from a man on the other side of the wall.

“Where is Danny?” she asks, her voice
trembling.

Americo gazes at her evenly. “Danny . . .”
Americo says, his voice trailing off.

He pauses to study his hands and she sees the
towel he’s holding has deep crimson stains on it, almost a muddy
brown. “Danny is unavailable,” Americo says.

Something in her stomach sinks.

He shrugs, smiles. “Danny asked me to send you
his regrets.”

“Regrets?” she says. Her voice is shrill.

Americo notices a wet stain on the toe of his
boot. It's dark, like mud. He bends to wipe it with the towel and
it smears like blood. He spits on his boot to clean it.

When he stands, he grins at her.

Her small upturned nose starts to quiver along
with her upper lip. The acne scars brighten on her cheeks.

“There is the matter of your bill,” he says.

“My bill?” she asks. Her voice rises with a note
of optimism. A bill is a simple problem, a solvable problem.

“For dinner. Your room.” He smiles at her.

“Danny said—“

“Danny said—,” Americo shouts, raising his hand
imperiously.

She goes quiet.

“Danny said,” he repeats in a lower voice,
pausing and pressing his lips together. He takes a moment and then
smiles. “That you would settle the bill, offer . . . recompense.”
He pronounces this last word deliberately with his thick Mexican
accent.

Americo tilts his head. He smiles.

He waits for her to absorb what he just told
her.

Her head is swimming. The pain in her scalp has
receded to a dull throbbing in the front of her head. She wonders
if this is Danny’s idea of a joke. It would be just like him to set
up something elaborate. Something crazy. She looks at the far wall.
A dark haired woman has a cock in her mouth, her own hand buried
between her legs. The man on the other side bucks his hips and the
woman closes her eyes and places her hands on the wall.

“And you will,” Americo whispers.

Hot tears run down her cheeks and she uses the
back of her hand to wipe her eyes. “I want Danny,” she says. “I
want to see Danny.”

Americo sighs. He drops the rag at his feet.
Takes a knife with a long silver blade from his boot. He uses the
tip of the knife to clean his fingernails.

The girl stops talking. She wants to stop
crying, but she can’t. She whimpers. Fat salty tears roll down her
cheeks.

“What is your name?” Americo whispers.

She's not sure she heard him right. She wipes
her eyes.

He tilts his head. "What did your mother name
you?" Americo asks.

“Lisa,” she whimpers.

The man Americo kicked rises to his feet,
retrieving his hat. Americo watches this man collect himself.

“Not anymore,” Americo whispers. “Tonight you
are Natasha.”

“Natasha?” she repeats.

“One of the girls is sick tonight,” Americo
says. He holds his hand out to where the women kneel. “Natasha will
take her place at the wall.”

She looks at the wall.

Americo grins.

“It is only for one night. It won’t kill you.”
He taps the blade of the knife in his palm. “Tomorrow you can go
back to America. Tomorrow you can go back to Lisa. Tomorrow you
forget Natasha. Forget Danny. Forget about Mexico.”

She looks at the knife, the way the blade picks
up the light. She wipes her nose with her arm. Tucks her hair
behind her ear. She ought to say something, she knows, but it's
hard to imagine what would make sense. What would be an appropriate
response?

“How . . .” she says. She stops, unsure how to
put into words what she wants to express.

Americo raises an eyebrow. He listens.

"How do you know . . . ," she says, her voice
trailing off. She is looking at the wall. Americo is giving her his
full attention, but there is a girl at the wall who has caught her
interest. This girl wears designer jeans that are worn and shiny on
the thighs. She has dark hair and a round face. Looks about
nineteen or twenty. Her thin arms are folded in front of her and
covered with dark wispy hair. She is staring at Lisa with a look
that's hard to read.

"How do you know if the men . . ." Lisa says.
Her voice trails off and she stops looking at the girl and sees
that Americo's brows are knitted together. He is looking at her
closely.

"If they're good-looking," she says. She hears
the words come out of her mouth and it's as if someone else has
spoken. Her eyelids flutter down and she shakes her head. It's not
at all what she meant to express.

Her cheeks warm, the scars glow.

Someone laughs, breaking the quiet. It's loud
and boisterous and the back of her neck grows moist. Her clothes
feel uncomfortable on her body. Americo is still looking at her
with that same even expression. He turns to the old Mexican man who
is laughing and whips the knife at him. It strikes the old man in
the shoulder and skitters across the room. Americo steps toward the
old man, but he scurries out of the room.