Sherry likes Shelly n Shelly likes Sherry too. The both of em, they recently graduated from The Ohio State University where they attended the same sorority.
When they met, their petals closed round each other. Everything else fell away. They made a pact to protect each other n did just that. They also made a blood oath to themselves that they’d never be victimized. They cut their legs, a little design in their thighs, on the inside, close to their soft spots. Every day they did their best to shove the Pee-archy aside n wrest the controls of personal freedom from Ole Grandad. Sherry had a framed portrait of Annie Oakley over her pink n blue bed at the Alpha Xi Delta house. She used to kick so much ass then. The men, they were scared of these broads. Rightfully so. Shelly keeps a gun under her pillow. They got their CCLs together. It’s hard to to tell what they’re aiming at behind those mirrored sunglasses.
When they met, Shelly wore her hair long n pulled back, up tight, in the poniest of tails. When she gave a eff, she wore it swept up in a poofy twist like weepy willow. Like fluffy lightening rod. In other words, she does up-dos n she does em big. Sometimes she does em ratty, too. Those are the times she don’t give a eff. She has NO effs to give, EVER. Or so she says. Shelly says this a lot. N you know what? Sherry says that same thing, for bait him, n does her hair the same ways. They always have- from the beginning- n they always will. Their dos are synched up socio-climatic barometers. They’re super-spiked chappy pointers with posterior motives. Everything signals they let their worst selves take over. No effs. They’ll save the kitties, but they’re committed to running over the dogs. For Shelly n Sherry, not giving an eff ain’t apathy, it’s survival.
They could have come from the same mum, Shelly n Sherry. Sherry brings it up to Shelly one morning after they jiggle n seizure each other real awake. When Shelly’s brain decodes the statement her ears just heard, she cries n cries big thongic zircostia tears rolling down into her milky laps.
‘You could be my sister.’ Her lids slow-blink blink like she’s drugtarded. ‘That’s real gross’, she says n jams her tongue into a mouth that looks just like hers. They suck themselves out of each other n vice versa.
‘I know, right?’ Sherry huffs in Shelly’s mouth, blow vibrating, with her vodka breath as they sink deep in each other like a two-headed Barbie-Breasted-Beast infiltrating its own reflection: eating itself like mrsa. They understand each other the way twins do. Like they share insides in more than just a licky, tickly, soggy way. They share floods; their kisses make them bottomless. They’re the living marrow of their own lives, n their extractions exceed expectation— their marrows go round n round, like the people at the clinic or bad blood in a spastic body.
These gals are pretty thirsty. They have a hard time getting their fill because a little ain’t ever enough n sustaining the good times gives em the gruels. But, they’re extendentually committed.
They talk about how they have lots of territory to cover to accomplish their goals. All the time. Their saving up n buying stuff at the hardware store. Lengths of pipe n caps. Lots of duck tape. Lime. At the sporting goods they buy black gunpowder. They stole the tannerite from Shelly’s dad, who’s a cop
When they ain’t cranking up their social justice sireens with signs n pink hats somewheres, or marauding in balaclavas n the latest tactical gear in the dead of night, you can find em in Jean jackets n Timberlands: NorthFace refugees pretending to be delicate so they can trap n eat their prey. I told you they’re thirsty n where there’s thirst there’s hunger. You can say they like menageries with three or more sausages n a oyster or two thrown in for palette cleanser. Like a smorgasbord of sweaty, pumping carcasses all fleshy til they’re picked clean by these rough n tumbling ladies, no bibs, no napkins… NOTHING.
It’s a open secret that they know they’re all they’ll ever need for a REAL buffet, but why limit yourself? When they fell way back there, the world was finished. N they proceeded to bully everyone aside n step on em like a human staircase to that treehouse they built when nobody was looking. From there, they still make the world grovel afore their fur vaults. When they ain’t amused no more they’ll just roll what’s left of these unfortunate carcrasses cross the spattered crimson clover n into the mass, unmarked grave called the Hocking Hills. When they score, when they wet some sod— sometimes the more grisly the better, these two can scarce contain their heart-shaped bushes n before long Sherry’s all over Shelly’s facial. These marks, these clearance meats, they’re only appetizers for the main course.
They grow together like foxy nerve nets interfacing n fancy free n building their lives one fleshy transaction, one goo-swapper, one baby ladler, one moister oyster with a credit card a diamond ring a wad of cash at a time. Lick, stick n run. They collect boys n girls n juice em like bunches of useless, stringy celeries, like carrots you forgot in a drawer n try to resurrect at the last minute. Least that’s what I do.
Sherry n Shelly wish they could make mp4s of their exploits, but that ain’t prudent. Besides, their phones are burners. They live gridless. Braless. One ‘transitional’ job she had, Shelly’s boss asked her could she please wear one. A bra. She grabbed him by the athletic bag n said, I resign. She lit a cigarette n walked away, like a lot of jobs before. She had gaps everywhere, including her job history. Sherry helps her with some of her gaps n vice versa. They rise n fall but never budge too far n always together. Always in their ‘idniotic she-bubble’— these two got terms n conditions for everything. They’re crafty, these broads. N when they rise, the world blooms, unfurling slow n plump. Like a swole rose smelling of water n sea-life making everyone in their vicinity bulge with hot intentions.
Get this: Shelly n Sherry sing ‘I Got You, Babe’ at Karaoke. They have a routine worked out like any good cheerleaders/riot grrrls/ess jay double-yous would. Like any good professional candy-stripper, complete with the fake uniforms. Like anyone who wants to entertain you by robbing you of your hardly earned cash, dignity or marbles. When you’re in their orbit, you’re complicit in their scheme simply by watching em… by sucking in their phenomernones. N suck you will. It’s so good, some of the college dudes in the audience pop realistic boners during their saucy number.
‘They say it’s true we don’t have any pot.
But, we don’t like to share
the pot we got!
Shelly n Sherry can tell by self-fulfilling feedback how the evening will end. The women take turns being the lead in the song, just like their real life. These college dudes ‘love watching these bitches dry hump at Pounders Taproom on Thursday’. It’s all part of Shelly n Sherry’s game, see. The lure. They got their singles bar Karaoke uniforms on. DTF uniforms. Same as a lot of women that look like em.
Did I mention they look like each other?
They sold off 98% of their worldworn possessions on the Internet… one by one. Until all they had was bare bones. They fit the remaining 2% in their restomod El Camino for their tour of jury duty— they didn’t need degrees, robes or wigs but they already had a hammer to bang when they announced their verdict. Like they did when they sentenced that Darrel-licked redneck who tried to put the finger on em at Floaters Lounge in Lima. This was their jerkisprudence n they meated it out with blunt instruments. They were headed to the barren lands up north, because located there, they decided, was the only basket of freedom left. A stereotype loving anarcho-commune based on the memes of Manson, Kellogg n Kloss. Of course it ain’t real until they make it so.
There, they’ll be accepted n nursed on sprouted foods n almond lactations. Because that’s how they’d set things up for themselves. Two Club Queens in a card queendom.
They’d make this THE LAW. Love under wheels. All men were subject to search n seizures brought on by the stuff in their canisters,. baggies n flashlight tricks. These babes are hard n honed from hand to hand combat n moonitions manufacturing slash modifrickation slash handling.
To everybody on the outside, they were going on ‘a community over-reach’ with some ministry nobody’d heard of (cause Sherry n Shelly made it up). This is their official story. Just a plain, white charity campaign, nothing special but totally special cause of all the impulsiveness n mania that goes into it, Sherry n Shelly style. It’s going to be better than Thelma & Louise they say n brag about it to each other non-stop. They don’t talk about it with outsiders, though. They wanted to be like Thelma & Louise except they’d castrate that thief n burnout Brad Pitts at the end instead of driving off the cliff. Hell, they’d castrate everyone who could be castrated in their private should-be-a-movie-but-won’t-ever-be. There’s your alternate ‘happy ending’, Merica.
‘We’re like the Green Berets or Navy Seal incarnation of Thelma n Louise. A more elite level of sapphic-social justice anarchy.’ Says Sherry. Armed to the teats, they run through the woods after dark, with those expensive night vision goggles, stalking one another under changing weather or in high radiation zones for practice. They paint their bodies black n wear black sports bras n shorts. Sometimes they find campers this way n, boy, are they always glad they do. Campers usually have food n credit cards. If they don’t, they’ll have vehicles that can lead to food n credit cards.
They talk about picking up drifters, too. They decide that drifters that look like Brad Pitts or any similar processed meats should be first picked, mechanically separated in slow mo n spread unto the eco-cistern. The cocky boys that think their plungers are golden or something, are the first dragged into the alleys n bi-ways sideways. They’d suck n fuck em before they gelded em golden nuggets for their jewel box: it’s almost half full.
But, back in reality, the creditors have caught up to Shelly n Sherry again. This is only part of the reason they decide to skip this town they just settled in.
As they spin out of the driveway, the El Camino shreds shrubs spews stones, Sherry screams, ‘Find me in Ameriker, Cawksuckers!’
The next move they make, the big project that’s been weeks in the planning, is going to have to be on the moneyshot side of newsworthy. Squicksquisite. Cause they crave sealed fates as opposed to open ended futures n having to give narcs some sutures. Too much bullshit n not enough options. They been unscrupulously fantasy-planning/simulating this whole ‘smashngrabventure’ by lining up their marks n knocking em down in the privates of the wild. They bought several tapes of hot country music, n a Toby Keith phone recording Sherry made of his concert at the fair, for their one-heart-beating-as-two soundtrack to their wired open road. The score to a newfangled n rugged femdividualism. Their ‘pussy power is clean power tour’. They were joining the only person, for certain the only man, who made any sense right now, Milkhand Mignon. As members of his Pioneers of the Neo Frontier movement, they could be the vanguard of the new society as it formed, eventually overthrowing the man in charge when he’s revealed incompetent as all men are when the zipper’s down. Mignon was a easy mark because Shelly read a quote where he said We all need the power of strong women to help kill the patritardy. And he meant it literarily. He sent word out through the crows n the monkeys n the student bodies n the postal workers. They sent their messages back. They were messages of guns n massages, of bodies in garages. Milkhand was getting glad n scratching his ass. They might even keep him around as a sublet pet.
‘Y’know we won’t be able to work for a man for long.’
‘It won’t be long, Honeypot. Not long at all.’ Shelly says taking a chunk out of her Blow Pop.
‘Won’t be long before he trusts us n then we burn his mock-up from the cock up.’
Next stop, Youngstown, Ohio. They set up their usual ad on splaylist.org looking for some excitement n big ones.
The first day, they only stopped when they started wrecking into stuff- minor fender bender type situations in low/no surveillance areas. These chicks dug destruction of public property n monuments (after midnight, blasting AFTER MIDNIGHT). But it was cool because they were hitting n running, gassing n funning. Fuck the man.
‘I tower above the dumb livestock that stutter and shamble down the aisle taking up more space than necessary, wafting their stench as they melt into their devices. The men are pathetic. The women more debased versions of men. I look through the ceiling into the sky and pray for the bombs to cum; they were promised- where are they? Stand and deliver, ye grizzled phantasms of prog nihil. I feel as though I’m in Special Forces, or like I need to be, for this sterile hunting and gathering experience. Modern subsistence made easy: A, B, C.
I grab items that I think will be funny to drop in somebody’s cart. I stow expensive products I want here and there on my person (i.e. down my pants, in my socks, under my jacket). I throw the items I’ll put in other people’s carts in the basket I’m carrying around. Decoys. I don’t get greedy pocketing stuff, though. You can’t get everything you want in one pass. You just can’t. My coat is huge which enables me to, unobtrusively, purloin quite a bit without arousing suspicion.
I’m a clean stunner so nobody ever questions me.
I try to stick to the necessities, minimizing luxury items. This time, however, I splurge. It’s important to purchase a few items to look legit. I go to the meat cooler and pick up several packs of the cheapest, most disgusting baloney I can find. I pay for salads from the salad bar, too. This is part of how I like to shop. Shopping’s full of thrills and surprises if you do it right.
I burn silent holes into some disabused cow as she plucks her preservatives from the glinting shelves. A, B, C. Passing you like a ghost through my spectral shitter, I’m barely a dim mist- you can’t see me, can’t sense or feel me- so insulated in your bubble wrap aura, locked in your own binary code poophatch. The beauty of the cell phone age? No one looks anywhere else.
I’m here. Are you?
You’re the perfect supermarket mark. Women like you give all women a black eye. Believe me, if I could give you one of those with no consequences right here and now, I would. But you’re too ugly to kidnap and too shabby to be rich, so I throw a tube of Vagisil pre-biotic anti-itch cunt cream and some bullet type sex toy, which gapes open in the child seat of your cart. You fucking dumb ass. I follow this up a few aisles down with a smoke bomb which I’ve altered to he more like a real bomb but with prettier results; I can ignite them using my phone. I place a few in carts. A few others in housewares, MEATS and dairy. They’ll all go at the same time. By my assessment of y’all’s level of brain death, you won’t notice what I’ve added or subtracted from your cart until you’re in line or at the deli or until your cart blows up in your fat, ladled-on face. I’ll watch every one of you until you’re ready to leave and I’m ready to cream my eclair. Just as the first of you are checking out, I’ll set the detonator off. By that time, you’ve got the attention and I’ve ghosted. It helps that I’ve made myself look like a young white guy. I look honest, or so I’m told. Since I shaved my locks, I look like a college freshman: clean cut to the extreme. Unfortunately, I don’t look as much like Sher, now. Folks aren’t mistaking me for her. Some people actually take me for a wholesome, white boy. It’s in the eyes, in my gait, in my monster clit energy. My eyes: like beautiful sewer covers.
I get off on throwing some chaos, minor or major makes no matter, into people’s days. It’s a hobby, you might say. I don’t really want to help people, but I will. Sometimes I do- I have to. It becomes an imperative. I also like turning a profit, however small. Maybe if your purse is out, I’ll take and break. Pluck and duck. What man can resist a pixie like me rubbing up against him, lifting his wallet… they only feel the the frequencies of their peckers. When nobody’s paying attention to anything but their phones and peckers, these are great times for pickpockets of my skill-set. They never suspect a wide-eyed cherry pie like me.
My approach is completely different today, however.
I need condoms, canned air, paper towels, lube, beef jerky and some cough syrup ‘party favors’ because I haven’t had fun in a few hours.
Here I am, with my Russian overcoat- looking quite nice underneath- buying two huge salads that cost way too fucking much and a bunch of bologna that’s dirt cheap. And even though I’m filthy, I’m still more innocent than you.’
‘As usual, I’m finished before Sherry. She’s more selective, more deliberate and stealthy in her acquisitions. We slways have our own separate missions and we always meet back at the car. I’m pushing my cart through the parking lot looking for luxury vehicles. I like surprising the ‘haves’ most of all. These soft, spread-like white men are the ones that like to be— think they have the God given right to be— all slobbery on top and they’re in the majority, the rule makers, the oath breakers. One day, I’ll be able to pull off one of the biggest surprise parties ever for them. But that kind of thing takes years of planning and prep.
I go to the dumpster and HOORAY it’s unlocked today. I don’t have to clip a pad off it. Eureka! There’s a ton of spoiled lunch meat on top. Man… this is good. We don’t actually have to use the lunch meat I bought for this bit of fun. Moldy or not, we’d never eat that bullshit. The salads are for us; they’re hearty. We’ll relish them after we have some laughs, though. We need to laugh away the cares we can’t fuck away. Nasty lunchmeat is good for a lot of things, believe it or not. I should write a pamphlet. A column.
And there it is, a Mercedes with the windows rolled down slightly. I make a few passes through the lot, feigning parking confusion. Each time I wheel by the sedan, I throw pieces of baloney onto the white leather seats, a couple on the pebbled dash board. On the last pass, I go so far as to chew some up, slobbering it into the driver’s seat. Some old lady almost catches me, but I remove a set of keys and act like the car is mine. These doors don’t have that type of lock, but, that old woman doesn’t know this. When you act like you know what you’re doing, like you own the world, the world believes you do.
I see her over there looking for me. I’ve got purpose over here on the other side of the lot. This is where the shits park to feel like their cars won’t get dinged. Soft dinged. Slow dinged. Aggrodinged.
I have some super glue that I’m squeezing into the cars that still have key locks. Fobs have taken over. Pressing buttons is where we’re headed. We’re all turning into one big finger. I focus hard. Maybe if I can keep it up, I can transmit an EMP powerful enough to short out the strip mall. I hold my breath and send my blood to the surface.
I run lines of super glue along the automatic window seals.
When a car doesn’t have a lock, I settle for doing this or gluing the gas compartment closed or sealing the windshield wipers to the glass. I’m all out of lunchmeat, now. But I have eggs and acetone. I hit a few more rows and then head across the street to wait for reactions. People are furious and confused. I’m amused.
As they exit the store, I picture all these humps and lumps disintegrating into the pavement leaving only greasy footprints and scattered consumables. I could forgive them for their blindness, but it’s not up to me. My pettiness knows no boundary. My fully opened eyes understand the gestalt. I’ve had enough of spaces where phones never stop, where selfish manbeasts and their brood howl and scratch making endless noise with their stinking openings, their crusted appendages and dull faces. I’ve had it up to here with the robo-world’s demands for testosteronic interaction. As soon as you engage them, they take over. We break our thumbs swiping to the left, giving our lame disapproval. We’re swallowed and neutralized by public opinion. We lose the ability to make a real decision. The operators deny culpability- but, don’t they always?
That’s how they put it to themselves. But a few rings of rotten baloney they fished out the dumpster were the least of it. Shelly fed a whole heel of braunschweiger to some nasty looking mastiff mix through a small space between the rubber n the glass. It was going crazy with its teeth snap clicking n its tongue lathering the window. When the dog stopped freaking out, it gulped the whole gray thing down without chewing.
‘This is animal cruelty. No one should leave a pet alone in a car on a warm day like this.’
Shelly dropped in more shit meat then they hopped back in the El Camino n floored it laying out blue smoke n black streaks as long as two football fields. They got out of there before trouble found em sooner than expected.
Sherry packed 6 of her best guns, 2, 000 rounds, 4 cans of gasoline, 50 cans of potted meat spread, 25 sleeves of styrene cups, a trash bag full of packing peanuts, several bottles of Old Crow, plenty of loose leaf tobacco, repelling line, grappling hook n rolling papers. Tarp. Tape. And all the stuff I mentioned before. All the essentials. The only pressing need in the near future, after they had some fun, was to test the air bags in the El Camino right before they ditched it. The Camino’d be notorious by then: so would they. The owner’s manual said the damned thing had air bags… maybe the manufacturer forgot to put em in! She was ready for action, but were her airbags? The thought bothered her every time she got behind the wheel. The final order of business that might kill them or might make them stronger before they abandoned the last Adirondack bubbles of their stolen/borrowed life. They’d borrow another one from the Life Warehouse of Death Furniture. She just needed to get the first items on her action list out of the way. Then, the rest of their post cootal borage would be a cakewalk into the fur covered oblivion they worshipped like a talk-show host.
Right now, they had a date for meat.
Sherry stashed a fireproof box chock full of faked documents, identifications, n other items in the hidden compartment inside the hidden compartment nested under the driver’s seat beneath the floormats in a box welded to the frame. They wore flame retarded body suits most of the time n flack jackets the rest of the time. They’d been around n folks knew she was still alive somewhere. They had to find a place to stash all their hot valuables not to mention the noshables in their Carhartts.
Shelly opened a vanity case full of lipstick, sniffing powder, a hundred packs of stolen spearmint chewing gum n Newports, deodorant spray n Primatene mist. She took fifteen hits off her inhaler n huffed a snout if canned air from a baggie. She reached into a bag of foodstuffs: a smelly cheese wedge, salami n nearly booted. 2 bottles of Stoli, a half a case of ripped-off Jaegermeister n 20 boxes of matches, along with everything else lethally piled into the outhouse on the back of the El Camino which drooped preggers with the weight. It was a rolling bomb set to detonate when the party was over and everybody would be put to bed. Nighty night. Clothes changes were in another blue canvas suitcase (one over the limit according to Sherry). It’s ok. It’ll all be left in the flaming automobile at the tip of the third leg of the trip.
Sherry always carried her M14 with her in the El Camino, an obvious prosthetical metaphorism for her over-flexed male persone-al. Too obvious, if you ask me. Sometimes, when she partied too hard out in the woods she’d wear the rifle in a sling n holster she crafted from duck tape n bedazzled to hell. It was like a interholler memo to the rednecks to say please n thank you slung across her back. She’d have her glock hanging from her ample hips, too. That body that only got curvier the more she wrestled those drugged up goons they had a habit of creating.
Shelly could die in the folds of those hips.
After they loaded the most important items in the outhouse looking cap that Shelly’d customized for the bed of the Camino, they gathered their entertainment pack: rope, toolbox, wigs, glue, staple gun, pancake compressor, and a double headed toy that they loved so much they’d already wore the finish off it.
The leaves were just turning to a new life in death, so were the lifelovers… these berserker broads.
They made up a story n in the story was an idyllic land that was built so real, manufactured through countless repetitions. ‘All we have to do is believe.’ Said Sherry as she ejected a gob of mucus through her left nostril, thumb over the right. They may have even conjured Palmyra through their imaginings turned screamings, like real witches do, because the ‘cartographer’ they ran over for non-belief told them there was no such place… but there it was… at the end of a very long, scrub-choked dirt road. ‘Palmyra’ was a land of fresh pussy, indentured manlets n towering clover. This was the ultimate destination for their vacation… for their cultural sublimation… ‘Palmyra’. They’d found it on a map in their brains n knew they could bully it into existence. After their excursion, if they hit all the points on the ititerary, they’d be judged on their worth by the air bags. Coatlicue’d either save them using the air bags, or destroy them, like criminal dumb shits, with the same.
‘Palmyra is as close to the Garden of Eden as you can get.’ Says Shelly. I got news for you, if it wasn’t real these dames’d make it real. Guns, hallucinogens n hatred can manifest the improbable FAST n more than you might think. These rootin’ tootin’ hotties were sharp enough to understand that this was more’n likely what academic folks called hyperbole. They were kind of smart n kind of stupid as dirt, but they understood what a hyperbole was. Once in Palmyra, they’d completely commit to living nude n living off the farts of the land. So it’d have to be somewhere warm. They wouldn’t need an El Camino with a home made, outhouse-looking cap anymore. They would, moron likely, need lots n lots of ammunition. Maybe think about stealing a bow n arrow from some corny ass hunter? Oh yes! They made good sport of sportsmen. Mostly, hunters were so stupid n horny that TWO stone gold foxes showing up in camos made em as vulnerable as any swole-cunted woodland animal.
On the first night, after they set up camp, Shelly got good n drunk n did some square dancing with a dude they encountered in a blind. He could have been made from a jelly filled glove by the looks of him and he smelled like deer pee. But he was cute enough for sausage. She pulled him in n they danced in the fire, her calloused feet immune to the glowing logs, her garbage smell overpowering his own. He was trying hard to out-man her, but no man round here could proof her pudding. The smell of seared dead white skin hung over their camp site. Far away from the nosy brains of rational beings. She was holding onto his ears, not his arms, as they danced. She put her fingers in his mouth n mouthed the words to a song he never heard. He couldn’t read lips. She injected him with Succinylcholine as she pulled him in tighter, near collapsing something inside his neck. He thought she pinched his bottom, n he popped little boner before his eyes slammed shut. It wasn’t two seconds after he collapsed in her arms- his blistered n bunioned feet dragging embers n leaves n blazing logs as she pulled him into the center n dumped his 200 ignorant pounds right onto the fire. She was good n drunk. That was her bag; she didn’t do anything without the warped encouragement of ethanol n inhalants n those spirits had answers she never dreamed of before they spoke.
‘You know if you test those goddamned airbags with all our sensitive cargo, we’re gonna go up like a Christmas 911.’ Says Sherry, smelling his fat roasting n watching his hair burn like a fringed dream machine.
‘No time to look back.’ Says Shelly slathering hand sanitizer over her face, upper arms n hands. ‘You want white or dark meat?’