Joelle “Snow” White, pt.I

J.S.W whirls around at once, tears already flowing copiously from her mesmeric, almondy eyes with her torn white skirt bunched around her red bleeding knees resting upon the black plastic of garbage disposal.  She implores

–       Ah, dear assassin, leave me my life! I will run away into this wild city, Luceria, and never come home again.

And as she is so beautiful, the hitman has pity on her and says:

–       Run away, then you poor child.

“The addiction will soon have devoured you” thinks Jesus “No Worries” Mercurio and yet it seems as if a stone has been rolled from his heart since it is no longer needful for him to kill her. And as the professional murderer makes his way back he instead kills the street mut who had attacked him earlier and gutts it for its heart and lung. These innards Jesus M. returns to the psycho stepmother Queen Henriette Trefoil who, after having her personal cook prepare them in the style of an utmost French delicacy [e.g. Coq au vin], chews the whole mess down with great, disgusting gusto.

Then comes Joelle S. White’s most forgettable night after which she wakes up in the  following situation/condition.


Blow, that’s the absolutely only thing Joelle “Snow” White can think about right now, she has to really score some blow this very moment. Hallway smelling of piss, arm itchy, stomach rumbling, never to mind. The last time Joelle ate was way back when… plus she doesn’t eat all that much to begin with [thinks she doesn’t deserve anything good in her life] meaning J. “Snow” White is one thin twig of a female but yet nevertheless hellasciouly good looking: nice chest, great face, hypnotic irises, good legs, scenically curvaceous, the whole p.s.- free deal. But here Joelle is, anguished, starved for two thin white lines, madly reeling down an unknown hallway so that no one would ever surmise that she is if necessary capable of the bee-line staccato with which models make a living.

J. “Snow” White woke up in this badly lit building some few minutes ago not having a clue how she got here or where she is. Altra Luna, yes, but where exactly in this huge metropolis? Disregard. What matters now is to get her hands, rather her nose on ye good old dope.

She pushes herself off of the walls with a nonchalance that suggests locomoting like this is your regular forward motion. The next door she comes by has a shoe-rack standing to its right overflowing with all types of sneakers. Joelle takes a quick look at them [clean, expensive, tiny] and so to her they suggest this be an abode of nonviolent people, which is a completely ridiculous way of trying to establish if folks are legit, studying their loafers, hiking boots, kicks, etc. but in throes of her hankering for nose candy Joelle will resort to outlandish rationalizations much worse. Anyway, this is J. “Snow” White’s improv way of seeing if it is safe to buzz before she performs some hairraising histrionics to get cash$$$. A shiver down her nicely curved back that she is out here, in this condition, doing this shit, still. The one-time model silently curses her stepmother as the door swings open.

–      Hi, hi there, my name is Joelle, Joelle White. Sorry, I’m very sorry to just be ringing at your door like this.

–      No worries. I’m Charlie Kress, nice to meet you Joelle.

–      Nice to meet you.

His little hand, Charlie K.’s, rises to meet hers; he is a small person, which perfectly doesn’t matter but she can’t help taking note of the fact. J.S.W. is reminded of one of her father’s top traffickers, thus reminded of her father, King Nicholas White, thence almost breaks out into a loud sob despite the absolute priority of this other, overpowering feeling, namely the urge to consume llallo. The stick-like dame scratches her already scabbed over left arm, one of the seven thousand ticks that affect her when desperate to score.

–      This is a bit absurd but if perhaps I could quickly explain to you the situation that I…

–      Uhm, listen, Joelle. It’s not such a good idea to be tallking in the hallway like this. Attracts the wrong crowd, wrong, wrong, wrong. But if you’re cool with it, you can just come in for a sec and explain whatever it is that needs explaining.

Being significantly taller Joelle has an unwarranted sense of zero danger. Plus what’s her scope of options, for real for real? J. “Snow” White can’t even recall what neighborhood, much less what street she’s in. And she cannot detect that awful ulterior agenda glitter in the guy’s eyes, so hey, work with what you have.


About tmabona

writer, reader [bolano, DW, bellow, deLillo], runner, badmintoneer
This entry was posted in 21stCent FairyTales, Joelle "Snow" White. Bookmark the permalink.

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