Know When to Hold, Fold, and Kill a Motherfucker
General Summary
Imagine a colony of ants. Working so succinct that not only do the weak benefit from the strong, but the queen is provided the most of all.
Now imagine that you are a beetle in a colony of ants. Your pilled shape and more shelled exoskeleton ends up with you being attacked or left to starve. The ants don’t have time for you or your petty whims. They need to provide.
For everyone but you, of course.
That was my life growing up. The beetle in a haystack. The roach in your shoe. I don’t like to talk much about what my life was like, but I’ll be the first to say that Ron Dequios may sound great on skin, but once you see the real shit, you have no idea what Ron Dequios is like.
I was the great anomaly of this shithole. Mostly because people really didn’t migrate in or out besides traders that would come through. Never knew why we were allowed to stay, but apparently someone had enough sympathy to give us a thrown together pile of logs and called it our home.
I say our, but it was mostly my parent’s.
Either way, you want to know something badass I did, right? Well, I could just list it out for you, but I feel like there’s one in particular that’ll really get your gears moist.
I think it was about nine or ten years ago. I had gotten fully admitted into the workforce, given a “real job”, and was smacked on my ass as I walked into a field. That’s when I saw one of the seven most beautiful things on this scorched rock. That’s not to say that I don’t find more than seven things beautiful, but let’s just say that my heart grew 1/7 of its size that day.
There weren’t a lot of youngish people like me working out there. A lot were older men; all tanned up from years of service to the ant queen. But he was different. Hair pulled back, built like a beast. From a distance, you’d think him a statue, but he had such a warmth about him that the sun could never compete with.
And I, Madame Roxxanne, knew I wanted to have him.
Pill beetles are strange little things. They skitter around like they own the dig, but the minute you approach them, they curl up and hide. Probably to not get eaten, but when has that ever prevented a little shittling from squishing them between their chubby baby fingers?
I was dumb growing up. Sure, I learned the drug trade from my dad and how to win a heart, mind, and dick from my mom, but I wasn’t “smart”. Not like other people anyway. Not like Jerome. In the sea of cows, he was the only chocolate milk I could find. One that was still breathing, anyway.
I had my hoe in hand and when the nightmare of the “Farm Leads Expert” told us to form up, I did. Right next to Jerome. He was a whole head and a half taller than me. The dark skin of his glinting in the sun from the sweat of his brow. God, I was an idiot for staring as long as I did. Rule 1 of seducing, kids: know when to hold and when to fold.
I…folded immediately.
We worked two separate grain fields. All day and some of the night. The FLE (or as I called him, the GFY) made sure everyone was pulling their fair share, spouting some bullshit gospel about why we work the way we do or why we should always be thanking Ron. I learned to shut it out like most things. Only thing that would get me through those fields was Jerome.
I hadn’t ever met someone who actually gave a damn about me. We’d go to to the riverbanks, get high as shit, and then love each other through most nights, even some days. His laugh was like…something out of a fantasy. Compliments that would make my knees buckle. I was water in his bucket. And I never even knew.
I’m not the gushy, lovey type. Makes me puke at the thought anymore, but when you’re young, you get stupid. Stupid crazy, stupid stupid, even stupid charmed. At first, I thought it was the moon drops we were popping, but when I realized I wanted to spend my life with Jerome, I thought I was going to kill myself. Not because I hated it, but I didn’t think that was something I could feel.
Love. She is the fickle bitch.
Anyway, months went by and we worked our way to the point where we got ourselves our own home. Right on the edge of the stream. We’d work all day, fuck all night, and pretend like our lives weren’t going to hell. I was maybe seventeen at the time, but I felt like the queen mother-fucking ant. We had food! Booze! A land that was ours as far as the eye could see.
Now, sitting where you are, tell me what you think is about to go wrong?
It’s ok I’ll let you ponder while I keep going.
Like I said before, I folded my hand to Jerome and he took the pot. I never realized how true that was until one morning we got a loud bang while the day was still dark. Both of us were hungover, so I let him get it. Not like he offered, but I wasn’t going to move. Our room was on the other side of the house, only being blocked off by a curtain, so while Jerome and whoever came in were talking in whispers, I made out sounds and syllables that made me pale.
I don’t scare easily, but when you say you’re a slaver from the Pitts, I knew that there was a lot about to go wrong.
Our house was creaky as a rusty fuckbench, but I found a way to make it out our window and into what little yard we had. Then the yelling started. The sick fuck decided to lure me. Call out my name. Raise that bet. I couldn’t hesitate. I didn’t want to hesitate. I needed to save my fucking life.
We had some sheers in the back of the house we’d use for working, so I grabbed them. We had no guns, but these people did. Two of ‘em. Looked and smelled like the Pitts. One got me in the hip, leaving me in a rush of pain. Then I saw Jerome and the audacity of him to come over and pretend like he wanted to help. I stabbed one, then two, then all I was left with was some idiot I gave my chips to. We went all in and this was our last hand.
I went for center mass. Shears closed on entry, then opened to make sure what was done was done. One side snapped off and remained in the mangled chest of what remained. I wasn’t going to the Pitts. He wouldn’t take me there. Sometimes, the best way to win a game is to kill the other player before they can kill you.
What? This didn’t seem like a victory to you? Fuck you. I survived, that was my victory. Just like everyone else here. Now you want the damned drink or not?
Character(s) interacted with
Report Date
21 Mar 2019
Primary Location
The way that this vignette is told as though being recalled in a bar gives the piece flavor. Being able to break that fourth wall in a tactful way is difficult, but you’ve certainly nailed it here. The style also contributes to the rough-and-tumble nature of your character through the way they perceive this important memory of theirs. For example, the fact that they consider just surviving by any means necessary a victory at the end of the story is incredibly telling. You also start off swinging with great metaphors that easy get the point across, too - the “beetle in a haystack” really got me good. Very clever!
There were a couple of instances, both big and small, where I wish there had been a little more elaboration. The ending is a big instance. It feels very rushed and I was confused what exactly was happening. Where did this house come from, I thought the couple went to the riverbanks? When did her assailants make it outside after she had to jump out of a window? Something smaller is when she calls the FLE the GFY for short. I assume it’s something along the lines of “God, Fuck You” but that’s not made clear to the reader (nor is it an acronym you can really assume the audience will “just know”). Also, I believe you have your locations slightly mixed up. The Brights seems to be the place you’re looking for when it comes to men working the fields as slaves for a “queen”, Ron Dequois is communist and run by a man. Other than these details, I think this is a solid backstory that makes me want to know even more about your character. Well done.