Wednesday, October 7, 2009
A GIRL CALLED MARINOL
A GIRL CALLED MARINOL
Text & photographs By Walt Cessna
She crosses the street, in the middle of the street, in the center of traffic, smack dab in the middle of everything. Unharmed and unhinged, she makes her way past whizzing cars, honking in anger. But she’s got her Shuffle on and all she can hear is track 8 by Tiger Army and all she can see is her near future, which she thinks is sitting at a bar called The Gangway over in the Tenderloin. And a little thing like traffic sure as fuck wasn’t gonna stop her.
Standing a bit over 6 ft. and weighing just under 100 lbs., Marinol Rosachea Cessna was a complicated girl on the outside but a simple soul at heart. She presented herself in the most theatrical way possible and often found herself resembling an extra from an 1800’s Bordello Side Show. Her clown like features were even more exaggerated against her alabaster skin and her choice of make-up often left her leaning towards a Bozo look mixed with Betty Boop features. A sex vixen cartoon clown.
Today she was dressed in a tainted yellow bias cut gown from the 30’s that was slowly fading away at the seams, a pale lavender sash hung limply across her chest and an overlong string of pearls dripped cheaply from her neck. Layered fishnet tights peeked out from strict ankle length zip front boots- very 80’s, Maud Frizon goes Fiorucci. Her hair was cut into a severely short Lulu bob, the tips of which were dyed a sleek shade of blueberry that reflected the light in a sublime way.
All of this gorgeousness is lost on the world around her as she stumbles in slow mo across the street, finally making it to the other side in one well worn piece. Marinol stalked down the street and nearly trampled a tiny old man as he exited the bar. All that got in her way would have to suffer at this point for she was a woman possessed, out of control and driven to the point of sheer madness. There was only one solution as far as she was concerned. He would have to die. No ands, ifs or buts about it. And it wasn’t going to be easy. Or pretty.
Ever was sitting at the bar, crosslegged and confused. A shotglass in one hand and unhealth appetite for counterfeit astonishment in the other. There was only one thing on this whole fucking planet that made him happy. Able to function. Unfreaked the fuck out. And her name was Marinol. Marinol Cessna, the first true love of his life and the biggest cuntasaurus bitch he'd ever encountered. And he's encountered quite a few in his 44 year on this god forsaken planet. Ever came from a long line of fiercely domineering women, his mother being the most intense. I mean come on, who names their kid Ever? Which is why Ever loved Marinol's name. Who the fuck names their kid after synthetic thc?
Mookie the bartender drags his tired ass over the second Ever motions for another shot and before you know it the warm flow of Patron swabs both their throats as they share a shot in unison. Mookie looks at Ever and sadly shakes his head.
"You got those sad, sad eyes goin again..."
Ever ignores Mookie and braces himself for the inevitable. He shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out the zip-lock full of tina. Marinol's tina. $2000 worth of her secretly stashed shit. Ever didn't even do any of it. Well that's not exactly true. He did dip in once, but that was just because he wanted to make sure it was speed and not heroin. The speed he could sell, no problemo, but the dope was too risky and not worth the wrath of Marinol. He put the drugs back in his pocket and motioned Mookie for another shot. He never got a chance to drink it.
Marinol had stormed into the Gagway like a typhoon doing a disco dance with a tornado. The first casualty was Ever, whom she spun around and up from his seat, dragging him be the hair halfway across the bar before she stopped and brought his face close to hers.
"You picked the wrong girl to fuck with Ever"
Mister Fister was sitting on his throne, which sat smack in the middle of his avocado ultra suede walled living room. The carpet was hot, throbbing pink and the ceiling was black n white checker-board patterned. The television was one of the largest you could buy and practically took up one entire wall. It was constantly tuned to one channel. The only channel as far as Mister Fister was concerned. It was the only thing that could sooth his inner savage beast or calm his constantly rattled nerves. And this was his favorite show of all- part of a week long special- Shark Week on The Animal Planet.
Mister Fister sat transfixed as the sharks dashed life-like across his plasma wall, his spell only broken by the sound of his cell phone buzzing.
“It fucking better be Marinol”, he thought as he answered the phone with his trademark greeting.
“What the fuck do you want?”
It wasn’t Marinol. But it wasn’t a wasted call either. This was someone that Mister Fister had been waiting to hear from for a long time and might even be able to help him with this Marinol problem.
“Mr. Loosed Basely! It has been far too long since I have had the pleasure of your company. Might you be in town?”
“That I might.”
“Well fuckin all-right! My place. Tonight!”
“Tight. See ya later Mister Fister.”
“Till then Mr. Basely.”
Mister Fister clicked off his cell and slid off his throne. As he stood straight up, his 6ft 7 stature almost brushed the ceiling. He headed towards his bedroom and slipped off his plaid snap front shirt, exchanging it for a tight, well worn tank top. He stood in front of his mirror and examined himself slowly. His dark eggplant colored skin glowed in the dim light and his 250 lb frame was as finely tuned and strictly chiseled as a cartoon action figure. But Mister Fister wasn’t a cartoon character. He was real. Alive. And seriously pissed off at Marinol. That bitch stole his shit and there ewas no way in fuckin hell that she was gonna get away with it. And now that Mr. Loosed Basely had re-appeared back in his life, Mister Fister knew exactly how, where and when Marinol was gonna meet her end. Such a shame. She used to be so pretty.
Mister Fister strode quietly back into the living room and sat back in his throne, focusing his attention back on The Animal Planet channel and the sharks, imagining Marinol caught in the middle of them, each bite more searing than the last. His face froze in a demented smile, his eyes glazed over, lubricated by carnal lust and a desire for death. Pay-back was all that mattered and no-one ever got a second chance with Mister Fister. Marinol was gonna learn this the hard way. It was just like he said, Mister Fister thought. She used to be so pretty.
To be continued
Photographs by Walt Cessna, SF 08