MONGO
Bitch-ass Gabby!
Has me out here, walking the boulevard on a goddamn Tuesday. Feet are throbbing, blisters on hammer toes from these vinyl stilettos. Legs could use a shave, face too. Least my wig is on point, electric blue with pink highlights. Have to make the most of my time, practicing this runway walk for when shit gets real and I don’ t have to come back to these parts no more. My heels click concrete. Step, two-three-four … vogue. Step, two-three-four— and hold— hand to hip. Giggles come from the corner; Faye is leaning up against a busted payphone.“ The fuck you laughin’ at, girl?” The redhead plays like it wasn’ t her. Know it was. Whatever. She can laugh. They all can. Reality is that in just a few days, this pretty face will be on the LA Xpress adult classifieds throughout the city. Every newsstand and street side dispenser will feature Miss Mongo in all her glory. All that’ s left to do is pay their photographer fee, have my photo shoot, sit back and wait for Hollywood to come calling. Surely, someone will see these mocha features and a bulb will burst. Movies. Television. Hell, I want a motherfucking talk show like Tyra. That bitch be doing what I’ ve been dreaming. It’ s all there for the taking too. No more hustling these streets. A new hustle awaits, one with designer gowns and diamonds the size of grapes.
Teenage shouts come from out a passing minivan; a glass bottle shatters across the cement up ahead. Smells like Cuervo. Two middle fingers is all I care to throw back. Speaking of limos, an old white one is pulling up in the distance. Looks like Lexi is going to see what they want. Sounds like a bachelor party.