VEE SCHILLINGER

'Kay, enough with *pretending* to talk to that asswipe fuckin' monk. I've had
the world's worst week--worst since gettin' a mouthful of menstrual blood, at
any rate--'n' I guess I maybe need a little...HONESTY...in my life.

Stompin' around Oswald with my thoughts hummin' and swirlin' like the funnel of
some personal tornado, like I just can't *organize* 'em anymore. Like losin'
most'a my hair's made me "light-headed" as I fuckin' feel. Like I can't even
FOCUS.

First, we got NEE-ko-lah Stanislofsky, that nutbucket ex-Commie slut. Comin' up
to me in the Post Office, bracin' me right on my own home ground, and askin',
all fake-polite: "Mees Schillinger. Do you remember Sasha Vogel, perhaps?"

"The Jew?"

"The *Russian* Jew."

Next thing I know, she's halfway over the counter and tryin' to slice my NOSE
off with a razorblade kiss; I slam her in the face with a package I'm holdin'
and it goes right through her bottom lip--and that goddamn constantly-hoverin'
hack of COLOR who spends all day, every day with his eyes stuck to my backside
*still* has to pull her off me, spittin' blood. I mean, what the fuck IS
this...Let's All Jump On Vee With A Sharp Object week, or what?

Sure, I killed Vogel--*had* her killed, anyway. But like I said before, her
fuckin' RELIGION had crap-all to do with it, any more than the reason Simone
Adebisi and me always gotta rumble is 'cause we don't like the look'a each
other's skin-tone. Shit, Adebisi could be blue, I wouldn't like her any
better...

//Not after she cut off my fuckin' HAIR//

Or big and white like Sash, her whole back *covered* in those funky Russian
tats--some kind'a gulag gang shorthand,whatever. Both of 'em hardcase bitches,
just like me; walkin' it *and* talkin' it, dumb-ass accents and all. And when
she got up in my face one too many times--challenged my rep, looked a little
too hard at what's MINE--

--WAS mine. Then.

//And can anybody guess what *that* was?//

Yup. That's right.

//Beecher.//

Tory...

//...*baby*.//

Got it in one.

But anyway. Somebody even looks at MY property, let alone makes a TRY, don't
matter whether she comes from Moscow City *or* deepest, darkest Nigeria--anyone
in Oz, OR out, 'd know I was gonna have to do somethin' about it.

And since *I*'m the one still here...

So Stanislofsky gets dragged off to Ad Seg, and I catch Rhea O'Reilly out'a the
corner of my good eye, tryin' to stare me down--like she thought she could
maybe burn a hole through me, she just squinted hard enough.

And I just raise a brow, give her a smirk: THAT's right, cupcake. Not a scratch
on me.

Probably the one *told* that Vodka-drunk cunt what went down with Sash and me,
in the first place--not that I could ever prove it.

Or like I'd ever try.

Meanwhile, back in Em City, we got my ever-amusin' ex-, pretty Tory B. Who is
*not* so unhappy, anymore. Just the fuckin'--

//Huh. And THERE's a nice turn 'a phrase//

--opposite.

And at least *that*'s goin' according to plan.

Gotta get it secondhand, 'course, most'a the time--got that punk bitch Martha
Mack keepin' tabs on her and Queen Christina, eavesdroppin' on all the
lovey-dovey shit goin' on right under McManus' nose. Watchin' Keller work her
very own brand'a magic, from the inside on out: Tamin' the savage beast, and
turnin' her back into QUITE the little beauty, too...or so I hear.

//Mmm.//

Kinda like to see *that*, I must admit--

//--'cause...it's BEEN a while, ya know?//

But I hold off, bide my time--wait, nice and patient, for my turn back in the
saddle. Back--

//on *top*//

I mean, shit--if all I wanted Bitch-er was DEAD, I'd just pick her up and break
her myself. Size of her, I could snap her neck with one fuckin' hand tied
behind me, anytime I want.

//Her...pretty. Little. Neck.//

But: STOP it, I tell myself, sternly. Sex is sex, in here more'n anywhere; a
piece of ass, however nice--

//and oh, she *is*. NICE.//

--is *just* a piece of ass. Nothin' worth--

//bustin' your parole, scratchin' your eye, coughin' fuckin' FECES//

--over.

'Cause no matter how hard she tries to deny it, how she may like to *think*
she's special, Tory's just a drunk with a degree--an addict, same's any'a
O'Reilly's other customers. Always gotta be *some* kinda high to hide in, with
her: Booze out there, drugs in here. Anything to keep her mind off what's
REALLY happenin'.

So now it's Keller: Lips, hands, everything in between. 'Cause when it comes to
monkey business, Tina's just about the best there is...take more strength of
will than *Tory*'s got to resist her.

Which is exactly what I been bankin' on.

A day later, Beecher's off seein' her lawyer 'bout those upcoming *custody*
hearings--like she's EVER gonna get her kids back, makeover or not. I track
Keller down in the library, bent over with her tits to the table, readin' that
poetry shit of hers again. Catch a glimpse over her shoulder, and realize I
actually *remember* some of it--same freak she use'ta try and get ME interested
in, back at Lardner, just 'cause the bitch had a German name. One killed
herself over some MAN, and left her kids behind to live with the guilt.

//Weak-ass, legal-stamped, one-step-up-from-a *hooker*.//

I narrow my good eye, study the words. Try and get 'em to MEAN something, just
for a laugh.

*Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell--*

//Ah, fuck it.//

I lean in over Tina's shoulder, and murmur--right in her ear--

"Hear you and Tory really been settin' up house together, these last few weeks.
Goin' everywhere together, like you're joined at the hip..."

See her take a breath, careful--*hear* it, slow, deliberate. Just a LITTLE
ragged.

//*Damn*, but she's good.//

And: "Sure, Vee. Just like you told me."

Oh, yeah. 'Cause you ALWAYS do what I *tell* you to, right, Chris-ti-na?

//...right.//

"Huh, yeah. 'S not ALL work, though, is it?"

Grinning down at her, wide and mild. Like: You can tell *me*--sweetpea.

Tina breathes in again, a quick little puff--like she's chargin' herself up, or
somethin'--and matches me, layin' it on extra thick: The full-bore seduction
special, hopin' I'll get so wet between the thighs I don't notice what she's
REALLY thinkin'.

Bullshit fairly radiatin' off her, and she thinks I can't *see* it? Knowin' her
well as I do, the WAY I do?

//Same way I know Tory, comes right down to it.//

I'm not *that* blind, not yet.

//Not EVER.//

"Welllll..." Tina drawls, batting those long, dark lashes of hers at me--like
I'm Brad fuckin' Pitt, or somethin'--"...guess I *am* kinda--enjoying myself."

Oh, and I just bet you ARE.

//You prag's fuckin' prag.//

"Mmh," I agree. "Well, fun's fun--but 's been long enough, way *I* see it. Drop
her."

//From a fuckin' *height*.//

Broken body, broken heart. Blood on the bricks, that's what I want to see; Tory
jonesin' hard and not knowin' why,  cryin' and pining--suffering, sweet and
clear, mopin' around out on the quad where EVERYBODY can see her doin' it.
Spendin' every night trapped in a pod with the woman who made her think she was
*somebody* again, made her feel REAL, then busted her right back down to freak
on a leash. At which point...

...I step in. Offer her a--way out.

Not directly, 'course. I'm gonna leave that to my *other* catspaw in Em City,
the one nobody knows about. Not even Tina.

//Yet.//

"DROP her," I repeat. And:

"I will," she lies. "Soon."

"NOW, Tina."

"*Very* soon. I mean it, Vee."

Uh huh.

I shrug, straighten up--full height--and fix her again. Give *her* the
treatment, MY style: Cold eyes and big, warm grin, game face on tight like like
a goalie's mask. See her recognize it, try and stop herself from shivering--and
fail.

"That's good," I say. "Because...*I* mean it too, Tina. REALLY."

But then, you knew that already. Didn't'cha?

"Enjoy your poetry," I tell her. And walk off, whistling--feelin' her eyes on
me, locked on HARD as that damn black hack's. But *much* more of a turn-on.

Fear, man. There's nothin' like it...beats any high I know of. 'S why *I* never
needed DRUGS to keep myself occupied, even in Oz--unlike some I could mention.

Then I'm back out in the hall, and there's that same friggin' black hack,
starin' me up and down; speak of the fuckin' devil.

//I mean, shit, what does he *have*, anyway? RADAR?//

I scrub my hand through what's left of my hair, and eyefuck him right back.
Hearin' this little voice at the back of my head, at the same time, whisperin'
low. Like: Ever consider you might not be goin' about this quite as smart as
you like to *think* you are, Verena?

//Read Tory all wrong ONCE...and look where THAT got you. Remember?//

Yeah. I remember.

But: Tory, maybe. *Tina*, no. And THAT...

...*that*'s what's gonna make all the difference, THIS time 'round.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TORY BEECHER

Three weeks, give or take, since my kids came to visit on their way to a new
home I'd never see, a new life I'd never share--not if their grandparents had a
say in it, at any rate. Three weeks since I impulsively kissed Christina
Keller, my tall, dark and handsome new podmate--so good with her hands, so
temptingly *expert* with her manicures and facials--only to have her kiss me
back...and more.

//Much, MUCH more.//

Now here I sit in Brother Pete's office, just staring at my computer screen.
I've got a pile of work beside me, probably haven't typed a thing in about 10
minutes; just sitting here, thinking again about what I've let happen, what
I've done. What I'll--

//do//

--tonight, probably. Or sooner. Or...

//...the very next chance I *get*, frankly.//

And it turns me on, obviously: Best high since heroin, and a whooole lot
cheaper. But it scares me, too, like everything does, everything--new.
Everything since--

//my first time//

Not with Tina, no. With the angel dust, and the chair. And...Vee.

THAT first time, and--right after, thrashing in my restraints, shrieking 'till
my throat went raw. My whole previous personality pared down to a dull bone
nub. And the NOISES I made, like never before or since--

//--except with Tina, maybe--//

And *man*, that was when I felt my REAL cherry pop: Nothing like with those
prep-school boys my Dad gave the nod to, or those no-name one-nighters I'd end
up in bed with after too much of whatever was handy at those Harvard cram
parties. Or even with poor dumb, dead Giles, on my wedding night, when I signed
that contract and handed him my life, my loyalty, my soul...

Back knotting, wrists and ankles chafing, voice going, going, gone.
Unrecognizable, even to McManus, to Brother Pete--to myself. After a lifetime
of drinking myself too blind to realize how strong I really was, I suddenly saw
I was capable of anything. Always had been.

And, like I said--

--it scared the shit right out of me.

//Still does.//

I want to be human. To be *humane*. I keep coming back to that. But in here,
still close enough to Vee to see her every day, pushing her mail-cart and
grinning that dead little grin...I don't CARE if Tina's standing between us or
not. Because all I know is I want to make claws, jump at Vee--right *over* my
friendly neighborhood lover/podmate/what-the-fuck-EVER, if needs be--and pull
that smile off her face with my teeth. And that's, that's, just...not...

//*normal.*//

'Course, some people--the ones I used to do business with, for example, or my
blue-blood relatives--might say that letting some woman kiss you in the first
damn place isn't "normal", let alone what we've done since. Or getting drunk
enough to run over a kid. Or going to JAIL.

//Fucking know-nothing civilian morons.//

So many masks. So many transformations. From sophisticated lush to naive rube,
citizen to captive, free entity to bleating fuck-toy, idiot pet, slow-learning
student. Confidante. Compatriot. Object...of desire.

Rebel, freak, crazy woman--crazy Tory Beecher, ladies and gents. Look all you
want, but don't get too close, because...

...she *bites*.

With me and Vee--my Mommy, my mistress, my enemy mine--there's no truce, no
real detente. It's like Wild Kingdom time, now and forever: Two circling
animals, predator and prey, scenting slaughter on each other. Cage or not, bars
or not, Oz or not, I don't know who's who anymore. Who has who. Who...OWNS who.

Been owned once, and I don't want to be again, not *ever*. Which--

--brings us back to Tina.

//Again.//

Every little detail, every swipe of her wet velvet tongue against my own. My
breath catches in my chest, just reliving it.  And tonight, when the lights go
out, it'll just be me and her, me and her against the world.  Together. Which
is--exactly what I asked for.

Right?

But: The Talking Heads, chorusing in from the back of my brain, over a rising
flood of jittery strings. That old, familiar, early-1980's Yuppie boho song.

*WATCH out. You might get what you're after...*

Get what you ask for. Get what you--

//deserve//

And when you ask for Tina Keller--what *is* it you get, exactly? Magic fingers.
Soft lips. That BODY. Those firm, bra-less breasts against your own, one lithe
thigh shoved in between yours, grinding. And those eyes looking down, always on
top, even when *she*'s not: Big hazel eyes under brows flared like a movie
star's--eyes that can change from brown to green to grey in a matter of
minutes, in one hot gasp, one drawn or whimpered breath...

Lawyer-vision, my special stock in trade. I'm used to dishing out the bullshit
and watching people absorb it; I can usually tell if it's working by the look
in their eye. And when I look into Tina's, when she LETS me, I see--

--nothing.

Nothing *she* doesn't WANT me to see.

I can't get in, can't get under her skin, even now that she's so clearly gotten
*deep* under mine. And the thing is--when I'm there, when SHE's there, doing
those...things she does so very, very well...

...I don't mind. Not all that much, anyway.

Now, *there*'s a reason to be scared.

Because: Whenever I'm down on the ground with her, or up against the wall, or
just in our various bunks--when she's making me feel so damn good I *don't*
want a drink, or a free Almost start to feel like I--*owe* her something, or
something. Like I've got something to prove.

//Don't you trust me, Tory? Baby?//

"Trust": Oh, yeah. That's a GOOD one.

And me, just looking at her--giving her the narrowed Beecher-bitch stare, and
getting nothing but a big, innocent "who, me?" lash-flutter in return. Then
replying, coolly:

*Suuure I do--trust you. Like I trust myself...*

//...*baby*.//

And we all know how far THAT goes.

Think I'm gonna trim my claws for *you*, Keller? Just 'cause you stuck your
tongue in my--MOUTH--a couple of--

//thousand//

--times?

Still. Human, Tory. Humane. Right?

//Riiiight.//

Being Crazy Beecher: Much as I may bitch, there's a big part of me that *likes*
it.  I *like* people looking at me funny, giving me ground, not speaking to me
unless SPOKEN to. No one treating me as anything more than something to avoid,
some natural disaster waiting to happen, except for Hill and the O'Reillys--or
Rebadow, whenever her fucked-up version of God's got a little something to add
to the mix. It's kept me separate, kept me *safe* in this UNsafest of
places...up 'till three weeks ago, at least.

But now, now that I've got Tina...that Tina's--*got*--ME...

"Victoria?"

...everything I've done NOT to be known as somebody's prag is gonna go straight
down the drain.

"Victoria--are you all right?"

//Brother Pete.//

I look up, shape an automatic smile, proabably not quite as convincing as it
used to be--meet his weary dark brown eyes under their furrow of eyebrow, that
stiff shock of curly, poodle-grey hair.

"Yeah, sure," I say. "I'm fine."

"You were a million miles away."

I rake a hand through my own barely-tamed mop, wondering--idly--how I ever got
through life without deep conditioner before. "Oh. Um--I was just, uh..."

//wondering whether hard-earned rep for hot, hot sex was an equitable trade//

"...thinking."

He sits down behind his desk again, and I hesitate--then turn my chair, so I'm
facing him. And ask--carefully--

"Brother, do you ever miss..."

"...what?"

"You know, after your wife got killed.  Do you miss her--I mean, do you miss
the...uh..." //Jesus, Tory! Get it together.// I start again. "I *mean*--look,
you're a guy--"

He gives a dry little snicker. "Last time I looked, yes."

"Yeah. So--you must have...urges."

"You know how many people ask me that question, Victoria?"

"A lot?"

"Yes. And yes, I have my--'urges'--but I try to put all that excess energy into
loving God."

"Right. 'Course..."  I chew my lip, look down at the floor. Wish to that same
God--well, maybe not the *same* one--I'd kept my damn mouth shut.

Brother Pete shoots me one of his patented "I'm no fool" looks. "You've told me
on more than one occasion how you and Giles didn't have the best of marriages,
even before you came to Oz..."

//though that certainly didn't HELP//

I nod, still not looking at him. He continues:

"...but the fact that you're hinting around--what ARE you hinting around,
exactly?"

I shift in my seat, uncomfortably. "Nothing, Brother, Really. Forget I even
said anything."

Undeterred: "You haven't fallen in love with one of the guards, have you?"

//A hack? Be SERIOUS.//

Now I *do* look at him--like he's as nuts as most people think *I* am. "Ahhh,"
he says, catching it. Quieter:

"Victoria...are you in love with another inmate?"

"Yes.  No.  I think so..." I pause, clear my throat. Then--

"Yes, I am."  I admit, softly. And actually fucking blush, for the first time
in so long I can't remember when--

//aside from that last time Tina *made* me//

"I see."  Brother Pete leans over his desk.  "I'm happy for you, of course, but
I really do hope you're being careful.  Love in here can mean...so many
things.  Are you sure this isn't just sex disguised as love? Like--"

"..with *Vee*?" I grin, all teeth. "Believe me, Brother, she didn't even BOTHER
to try and disguise it. That was brutal, all hurt and no comfort--sex used as
power. But this--" I pause again, finding myself struggling to defend a
relationship I was ready to deny just seconds earlier. "With--THIS person--it's
sweet. And gentle. And..."

I drift off, not entirely comfortable revealing my sex-life's most intimate
details to someone who hasn't had any in decades. But Brother Pete just nods,
prompting:

"Good?"

"Yeah." I turn back to my computer, start typing madly--anything to hide my red
cheeks, this spreading, betraying flood of blood creeping from cleavage on up.
Squinting hard at the file beside me; cursing the day I ever decided that
looking more like the hardcase I so desperately needed to be meant breaking my
glasses, thus making sure I wouldn't be able to see much further than the end
of my own snub nose...

And why'd I have to even SAY that damn word, anyway? That damn, four-letter
word--simple as fuck, but a million times more costly.

Still, to be *able* to say it, at all...that's a step in SOME kind of more
civilized direction, isn't it? A step back toward (if not *to*) safety, toward
sanity--back toward the person I used to be before Oz, and Vee, and my own
stupid, drunken stupidity got a hold of me. Back when...I COULD love. Because--

--I *was* loved.

//*am* loved?//

Well. So maybe I DO owe Tina a little something, after all.

Abruptly, the fugue-state ends: Rubber-band synaptic snap, less a sting than a
single, full-body *wrench*. And I'm back in my skin, back in front of the
blinking screen, hearing Brother Pete's voice behind me--that old man's voice,
soft with compassionate worry, filled to the brim with such
woundingly...*genuine* concern--

"Tory, just be careful, okay?  I'm here if you need to talk."

"Yeah, thanks," I say, and go back to my work.

Blushing.

~~~~~~~~~~

TINA KELLER

So there I am, waiting in the visiting room hallway--linin' up to take my turn
at one of those little plexiglass phone-booths, with my stomach still doing the
Frug after that *chat* I just had with Vee. And all for what? 'Cause my
two-timing, two-times-ex-husband Bart can't get enough of his shit together to
send my mother a damn alimony check every once in a while, though he apparently
CAN drive all way up here just to talk to me--and what about, I *truly* do not
know.

//Nothin' good, proabbly. Never is, with him.//

And thinking, meanwhile, about Tory and me. Me and Tory. Me, and Tory, and...

//...Vee.//

Try as I might, nutty little fruitcake that she is, I just can't help *liking*
Tory--her sly sense of humor, her smartness, the way she opens up under me like
a--flower, or something--I just press hard enough.  And man, I know she's into
ME--into the sex part of me, at least. Way she purrs and moans, those little
looks of hers: Mmm. Been missing more 'n' *manicures*, that's for damn sure.

But is it just a cheap alternative to booze, a drug she can get behind with no
jonesing, no side-effects, somethin' she don't have to pay Rhea O'Reilly for?
Or is it more...is it...

...LOVE?

//Do I *want* it to be?//

From Day One on, whole thing's all been my show, and she leaves it that way,
even now--down to what we do, where, when. Gets acted on, doesn't *act*; she
won't eat ME out, much's she seems to love getting eaten. Blushes, screws her
eyes tight, goes all stiff, then limp. Lies there afterward, panting and
sweat-sheened, like she's forgotten all about Oz...

//me included//

"We could take this a whole lot farther, you'd trim those claws of yours," I
tell her, a couple of nights back, with my own--more *manageable*--thumb-nail
stroking at her cervix. And she frowns at me, mid-groan, little cat-mouth
crimping. Snapping back:

"I NEED them this long, Tina."

"What for?"

"...protection."

Which means, roughly translated from the original Beecherspeak: 'Cause I
*still* don't trust you to protect ME. Yet.

Well, how long I gotta wait, exactly? Time's a-tickin', for me AND for Dennis.

Dennis...

And here's that deadbeat Dad of his, right--*not*--on schedule.

I file in behind the next person, smile at him, sit down, pick up the phone.
He smiles back, picks up his; kinda appropriate, now I think about it--

//--for YOU, you phony fuckin' motherfucker.//

"Hey, Tina.  How ya doin'?"

I shrug. "Whatever I can."

//Whatever I *have* to. Like always.//

And GOOD as I can, considering it's his fuckin' fault I'm in here, that
dumb-ass dick on wheels.  If he'd been able to wrap his head around the concept
of child support, I'd still be outside. WITH Dennis. With*out* Vee.

//or Tory//

But: Enough, man. E-fuckin'-nough with all that, for now.

"Lookin' good," Bart comments; he's checkin' me out, up and down, like his
cock's gettin' thicker just givin' me the eye. Told me himself often enough how
all it took was one look at me to get him ready. So I play along, like always:
Flutter my eyelashes, front hard and send him secret messages in the way I lick
my lips, the way I cock my head, stare down my nose, prop my tits up against
the glass--

//See? Gotta look and not touch, you cheap-ass bastard--'cause I'm stuck in
here, for the next eighty-eight fuckin' YEARS--//

"Soooo...whatcha swing by for, Bart, exactly? Wanted to surprise me with some
money for Dennis, but ya thought I might have a heart attack from the shock
when I found out 'less you warned me 'bout it first?"

He gives me that sleazy-cute little half-smirk I've seen a hundred times
before--same one can mean anything from *Heyyyy, T--forgot to buy milk, but I
*did* pick up some beer* to *Whoa, whoa, c'mon...didn't think you were gonna
mind I sold the car, you bein' in the hospital and everything.*

//Oh, this is NOTHIN' good.//

He shifts in his seat, adjusts himself. Then starts over.

"Well, see...that's kinda the point here, Tina.  I can't afford to be sending
that kid'a yours no more support."

//That kid'a *mine*, white boy?//

"He's half your kid too, Bart. Court proved it, remember?"

//Same way they ORDERED you to pay the Goddamn support, in the first Goddamn
place?//

But: Fucker just sits there, hard as a post and twice as dumb, still sexy as
the day I met him. 'Cause men really are my weakness--never-grow-up goofs with
fast cars, fast bikes, hard abs and total pathetic loser approaches to life.
And much as I want to shout and shriek at him to pay up or I'll find someone to
cut off his dick, I know that ain't the way to go; never was, never will be.
The look, the tits, THAT's the way you get to Bart...

//...I fuckin' *hope*.//

"Kinda got your hands full these days, huh?"

"Well, uh...yeah. See--" He pauses. "--come to tell you, I'm getting married
again. To Sue..."

//Sue.//

Sue, that slut. Same bitch broke us up the first time. Sue, who ain't got half
my looks, half my *personality*. Sue with three kids of her own and one on the
way, if I know "my" Bart like I think I do. Fuckin' SUE, who ain't got--

//--a might-as-well-be-life sentence to ride out in fuckin' *jail*, either.//

"...and, well, uh...'m sure you can find someone else to take care of you, you
haven't had trouble finding anyone before..."

Sitting there with my fuckin' jaw on the floor as every word gets absorbed into
my body like lightning. Bart looks down, avoiding my eyes--probably glad
there's this wall of glass between us, 'cause he knows if there wasn't I'd kick
his fucking ASS.

"Got her knocked up?"

"Yeah. And her youngest's mine, too."

That hits me like a ton of fucking bricks. "What?" He shrugs. "So what the hell
was Dennis? Practice?"

"Yeah...I mean, *no*...look, it was just one of those things, Tina."

"Just one of those things, huh? Just one of those things. Well, I'll tell ya
what, BART-- one of those fucking *things* is that Dennis is still your goddamn
SON, and I've got a fucking court order that says pay up or we'll garnishee
your fucking wages, asshole."

"Tina, calm down."

"Calm DOWN?  You fuckin' prick!"

Which is when I slam the phone receiver right into the part of the window over
his weak, lyin', cheating face, so hard it pops apart like a Crackerjack toy.
And the hacks drag me off, kickin' and biting--takin' a little page from Tory's
book, there--to cuntlicker McManus' office. And from there, straight to the
Hole--'cept that Whittlesey intervenes at the last minute, takes me aside.
Explains how he's gonna let this one go, 'cause I've been sooo good with
Tory...so good, so good, oh oh SO good...

//Value of people who live in glass houses puttin' on a free girl-girl
sex-show, night after night after night: *Never* underestimate it.//

Davy-baby prods me into the direction of EmCity, and I walk back to the pod in
a daze. Anger's already gone the way of all flesh, so all I got left to think
about is how Bart--*Bart*, fucking BART--

--doesn't want me.

I mean, sure I'm totally pissed that he doesn't give a rat's ass about his
*son*, but this shit with Sue means he doesn't want ME anymore, either.

//He never wanted me. He married me--*twice*--and all along, he was fucking
her.//

I lay down on my bunk, chest tight.  God, it hurts so much; nothing compares.
Nothin' I ever did...nothin' Vee ever did to me...nothin' I'm gonna do to
Tory...

//Tory.//

She was here, I'd just let her help me fuck my pain away, like every time I've
helped her fuck away hers. But she's gonna be at Brother Pete's for awhile yet,
and me--me, I just can't let this go.

Scoring hooch from Alvarez and her big-haired spic posse is the easy part...the
HARD part is findin' somewhere safe to drink it. I take a look around, checkin'
the hacks' positions: Two on the station, Whittlesey back down on the floor.
Got the O'Reillys in front of the TV bank, got Simone Adebisi using the
classroom to snort tits, *off* Kaneisha friggin' Wangler's tits; little
Schibetta and her Gina pals're swappin' hairstyle tips over cards, while the
Biker chicks talk weed and check each other's new tattoos. But past all that,
towards the back--

--there's the laundry room.

Empty.

//Bingo.//

So I gather up all my dirty unmentionables, wrap the bottle in a t-shirt and
stuff that down in the middle of the mesh bag. And a minute or two later, I'm
sitting on the back row of washing machines watching my laundry dry, wishin' I
had a pack of cigarettes to go with the booze. 'Cause the only time I smoke is
when I drink.

Squeezing my eyes shut, so the tears can't slip out. Takin' a sip of the half
empty jar of clear liquid, feelin' it burn all the way down my gut. And
thinking: Yeah, a pack of smokes and a stool at Larry's Bar, that'd be real
good right 'bout now. 'Course, that IS where I met Bart...

//Hell, that's where I met 'em all.//

Doesn't want me.  No one does.  Gonna be hagged out by the time I get outta
here. Gonna be all alone and lonely, nobody left who even remembers my fuckin'
name. Dennis'll be all grown up, hate my guts just like I hated *my* old
lady's. And no one to be with, no one, NO one to love. Not even...

//Tory//

"*There* you are."

//...fuckin' TORY.//

Well. And ain't *that* the capper.

Slipping in when I wasn't looking, quick and silent as a little blonde cat. I
give her a drunken smile, eyelids at half-mast. She raises an eyebrow.

"You alright?"

"Oh, yeah." I sniff, wipe my face, take a long swig of hooch right in front of
her. And grin. "Yeah, baby. I'm fuckin' A."

"Hey, what the hell--?" She grabs the container from my hand, sniffs it, makes
a face--then licks her lips. I watch, grin widening; maybe this "kick it up a
notch" shit is gonna be easier than I thought.

But no. A second later--before I can even think of stopping her--she's already
over at the utility sink, pouring it down the drain.

"Hey, whatcha...whatthefuck'r ya doin'? That shit cost money, y'know."

"'Course I *know*. Look, you're obviously upset. And that...STUFF...is that
last thing you need."

"Oh, so no one 'round here gets to drink but you?"

"I don't drink. Anymore."

"Yeah, yeah. You're a fuckin' Twelve-Step triumph, all right."

She turns, brows knitting again. Voice soft: "Tell me what's wrong, Tina."

"Fuck." I sigh out loud, try to move the words from my sluggish brain to my
mouth. "You know I had a visit today?"

She nods. "Brother Pete told me."

"Well, it was Bart. My ex-...ex-. Married him twice." I hold up my finger,
laughing at myself--joke's on me, all right. "See, if you fuck a guy 'fore you
marry 'em, they not only know what they're getting but they get it for free.
If you *marry* 'em first, then you got a ring, got a home...you got all this
shit that they don't HAVE to give you, you just flop over and' let 'em at ya."

Which is how--and WHY--I married Bart, married Bob, married Phil. Married Bart,
again...

//Ah, shit.//

Pain in my heart, TIGHT. Those blue eyes, watching. Schooled expression, prim
little lips pressed together, like every social worker I've ever had: Like she
wants to be fair, fix things, "help out". Wants to *understand*.

I turn on her, snapping: "Aw, but what the fuck do YOU care, anyway? Lawyer,
lush, rich fuckin' bitch. You're high-class and I'm white trash, right? Just
good for a quick screw late at night, where nobody has to see. Yeah, you like
*parts* of me just fine, Vic-TOR-i-a...but since when have you every given a
damn about what's goin' on further down. under the fuckin' skin?"

"Understand", fuck. Ain't like I know her, really. Not *really*. And sure as
shit ain't like she...

...knows ME.

"I mean, you ain't the only one with problems, Tory. You ain't the only one
with--NEEDS..."

I can feel the tears start again, but I'm not letting them come.  Instead, I
look at the floor. Feel Tory come over, rub my arm with her hand. Try *not* to
feel it.

"Hey, look. It's not so bad..."

"Yes it is."  I whisper. Take a great shuddering breath, exhale, repeat. "Yes
it is. He don't love me. Nobody...loves me."

"*I* love you."

My head snaps up. "Whadja say?"

"Love you."  Her other hand comes to caress my other arm and if I had been
sober, I would have seen that she was trembling as much as I was. "I--love you.
Tina. I--"

//Ohhhh, Christ//

"--love you too, Tory," I hear myself say. And I--

--lean in and kiss her.

Sweet spit, tongue to tongue...arms winding around mine, dragging me down
between the washers and the dryers with a strength I didn't know she had, too
fast for the hacks to even see us go...

//Oh God, what the hell is happening here? And why can't I stop myself?//

And that look in her eye before, that calm, measuring look: Not bullshit
*sympathy* at all. Just crazy Tory Beecher making a psycho-prag-cold
assessment, like I used to do with Vee--and her too, probably. Figuring out
where it hurt and layin' on hands--or mouth-- before she could even ask, let
alone order...

//I know what *you* need, MA'AM.//

Beecher, that bitch. That crazy, crazy--little--*bitch*.

She's rubbin' up against me, everywhere at once; I'm trying to breathe with her
tongue shoved down my throat and failing--miserably, wonderfully. Finally, she
comes up for air and I take a gasping breath as her mouth moves down, across my
jaw and onto my neck, my chest, my stomach. Hands on my tits, hard enough to
tease but just soft enough not to hurt, and even through the booze I can feel
it right in my clit: It's THAT fuckin' good. *She*'s that good.

//And mine, all mine. All for me...//

Shit. Startin' to sound like Vee for a minute, there.

So long since someone's taken ME over, I'm surprised I'm even letting it
happen. But her mouth, her hands, her body are all over mine and I'm arching,
moaning, whimpering as she undoes my pants and pulls my shirt up at the same
time--

Lips on my nipples, teasing; teeth scraping along the valley of my cleavage as
she presses her face between my breasts, going deep...

"God..." I moan softly.

She laughs. Hisses, into my mouth--a hot and nasty murmur--

"Not even close."

--and continues moving downward, tongue snaking a wet trail down my belly, into
my navel. Thumbs in my waistband, pushing down my pants--

//oh my GOD//

--and then my pants are off and she's staring up from between my legs with
those short-sighted blue eyes, giving me this look like I'm the only thing that
exists in this universe. Same look she gave me a month ago, when I put her back
against the wall and made *her* choke on her own scream. Same look she probably
gave that prick husband of HERS, on their fuckin' wedding day.

"Did something for you, Tina," She whispers, slightly muffled, against the thin
skin of my stomach. "See?"

And she holds up both her hands for me to see--her clever, square-fingered,
SHORT-nailed hands.

//ooohhhh, TOry...//

So clean, and white, and naked. So Goddamn, fuckin'...defenseless.

I try to clear my throat, gulp helplessly instead. Repeating: "Fuh-- for *me*?"

//Baby, you shouldn't'a.//

No, I mean REALLY.

But she just smiles, sweet and silent,  I don't have the heart--let alone the
guts--to tell her any different. 'Cause now she's licking the insides of my
thighs, and I could care less about any fuckin' thing besides how damn *good*
that feels to me.

//Her tongue, wet velvet. Her sharp, heat-slicked TEETH.//

Tory Beecher's teeth on my private parts--what am I, fuckin' *nuts*?

//uuuuugh, just do it, DO it...//

Tongue's moving up as her thumbs move in, spreading my labia to reveal the
moist pink skin inside, my hard and throbbing centre. I let out a half-moan,
half-*gasp* as she traces her tongue along my clit, flicking and stroking,
still holding me open wide, massaging me.
And Christ, I'm so *wet*; smearing her face, her cheeks, her chin. She's gonna
reek of me 'till we get back to the pod. Taste myself on her if--

//when//

--I kiss her. Markin' my territory, my--

//property//

--fuck, get out of my *head*, Vee, you big bitch...

My breath comes out in huffs as she moves inside me, stroking me--finger,
finger, finger, thumb, with the other thumb feathering back and forth just
outside, hitting all the spots she's too far in to reach anymore. I'm writhing
on the floor like a cat in heat and just when I think it can't get any better,
it does: She puts her lips around my clit and sucks.

Soft, hard. Soft. *Hard*. Soft, HARD, *soft*--

I can hear a sound like a baby mewling, and realize it's me. My fingers are
clawing at the floor, thighs squeezing around her head and God, it feels so
fine, so RIGHT. My chest flushing, nipples hardening even further as I strain
towards orgasm. A tightness in my belly, fanning outward--sweat, starting to
form all over--

--and then it comes, *I* come, in wave after wave of pleasure--biting my tongue
to keep
from screaming, thrashing like I'm some puppet being pulled from all
directions...

Finally, it's gone, and I'm back. And Tory's there too, head on my chest,
waiting for me. She moves up and kisses me, so hard I can taste myself on her
lips. I'm totally sober.

Then the bell rings.

"COU-NT!"

//Shit, 's later than I thought.//

We scramble up, wriggling back into our clothes--I grab for the laundry as Tory
wipes herself off, scrubbing my hair back into place with both hands. But I
guess I'm not quite as sober as I thought, 'cause as we leave I stumble right
into Wangler, knockin' her toque half-off.

"Yo, watch it, bitch."

"Whyn't YOU watch it?"  I slur back.

She looks at me, then Tory, and gets a smile on her face like she just fell
across a free baggie of butt-warm smack.

"Aw, a'ight, *I* get'chall. BITCH-a got herself a new owner."

//Like you *don't*? Fuckin' gangsta-ho prag.//

Tory snarls, makes a little DIP, like she's gettin' ready to spring. She does,
she's in the Hole--*I* do--

//She's out. Out here. Alone.//

What I owe Vee. What I just fucked up, in there, when I let Tory fuck ME
stead'a trickin. her into drinkin' the hooch like I was supposed to. The
*plan*, for Dennis--specially now, since BART sure as hell ain't gonna help him
out of this hole I dug us both...

//Now or never, Tina.//

Before I can think myself out of it, I haul off and smack Wangler right in the
jaw so hard that it echoes across the quad--so hard the toque goes flying. So
hard her *gold* snaps up and slaps her in the nose, splitting her lip on the
way back down. She bounces back, growling, and I'm ON her like a fuckin' rash:
One in the stomach to put her down, then a kick to the side, the back, the
head...

Whittlesey, roaring: "KELLER! What'd I *say*?"

Fuck if *I* know, DAVE.

//Or care.//

Tory, gaping, gone in sixty seconds. A slim blonde after-image, light on light.

And then I'm cold, naked--bare ass on raw stone. The Hole. I bang on the door a
few times just for show, to keep my rep up. Sit back, and scream 'till it gets
me dizzy enough to stop.

Hangover time, faster than that still-booze's kick. I slump to the floor and
hug my knees to my chest, head swimming, feeling my pussy pulse--a hot, wet
clock keepin' time, my body still on fire from Tory's touches. Shit that was
*something*, wasn't it?

//Like always.//

Tory'll be back in the pod, by now. Sittin' on the bunk, starin' down at her
hands; looking at what she did to herself, all for me. Knowin' I left her alone
in a world full'a enemies, and she don't have the weaponry anymore to do thing
fuckin' one about it. Except,
maybe--

--go down to Alvarez for more of the same stuff *I* had, and get so Goddamn
drunk she doesn't CARE if she lives or dies.

//Pretty good work, for a fuck-up--huh, Ve-REEN-a?//

I lay down on my side and put my arm under my head as a pillow and try to think
pure thoughts. It doesn't work.

And: //God, it's going to be hell in here// I think, as I put my legs together
and...

...squeeze.

End Part 4

Back to Nicole S. other fic