Chapter 2 - Little Bird Sings
Pudenda Minks looked down at the young woman tied to the chair in the center of the room. Naked and trembling, just the way she liked them. A lamp hanging low from the ceiling threw a merciless light that made the sweat on the captive's forehead glisten and her red curly hair glow with an almost bloody hue. Bloody but not broken, to be sure. The girl's stocky and fit frame wore the ropes well, and it was hard to tell if the slight tremble was from fear, cold or a desire to snap her bonds and tear into her captor. The girl's green eyes squinted, not quite cat-like enough to make out clearly the shadowy figure lurking in the gloom before her. "Who's there? Who the fuck are you?"
A good question. Having gone by so many names at various times and ages, it was hard to know which one to choose at any particular moment. A partial list of f/k/a's scrolled through her mind: Destiny Wild, Shady Lady, Ilsa of the Standing Soldiers, Hot Voodoo, la belle dame sans undies, HelloKitty!, Mommy Dearest, She who Mosby betrayed, Messy Lena, Domme-di-dom-dom, Faim Fetal, Li'l Princest, Blibdoolpoolp, Organa Mafei, Judy Haloferns, Our Lady of the Downward Spiral, Lola Sveg, the Duchess of Duke Street, Pirate Jenny, Nighty-night, the Switch Queen of Marang and 40 Whacks.
So many, many aliases, monikers, pseudonyms and noms de guerre had piled up over the years that she simply couldn't keep track of them all. Lately she just went by Minx, which is how most people thought her last name was spelled anyway. Idiots.
"That's not important. I'd much rather hear about you," Minx replied, stepping into the light to reveal her darkness.
Her brunette hair coiled down around her face in snaky dreadlocks with menacing highlights of purple and blue, colors that whispered of bruises to come. Most of the rest of her tall, shapely body was encased in a black spandex catsuit, cinched at the waist by a broad leather belt. Since there was obviously no need to dress to impress this piece of trash, Minx had chosen a simple pair of thigh-high boots with sensible 3" heels. The leather boots, belt and matching collar around her neck were all accented by silver spikes and studs, giving her a very prickly, uncuddly appearance indeed. As off-putting as her wardrobe may have been, her dark eyes drew in whatever was fixed by her gaze, two black holes dragging their prey towards the red, hungry lips below.
Her present victim had started to make her very hungry indeed. The foolish girl had been caught trying to sell her body on a street that everyone knew, or should have known, belonged to Minx. This was The Drains, the part of town that sucked in all the flotsam, jetsam and filth of Chatham City, where it collected in a clogged cesspool of vice and corruption with Minx floating serenely on top. Whatever the scam or scheme, if Minx didn't plan it, she at least got her cut.
Prostitution was naturally one of her main lines of business, exercised under a closely guarded monopoly both to assure customers who came to The Drains a consistent quality of product and to maintain a healthy level of profit against the threat of ruinous competition. To have a common streetwalker simply walk onto one of her streets and set up shop was an affront to cherished local customs and traditions that could not be tolerated.
Of course, the air-headed little bimbo probably had no idea what she was doing. She was undoubtedly put up to it by a pimp, some cowardly weasel who was just using this innocent to test the waters and see what he could get away with - and would do it again unless he was tracked down and properly punished.
"Listen lady, I don't know . . ." The nameless girl's blustering protest was cut short by a hard slap to the face. Luckily, the chair was bolted to the floor. Minx was a hard slapper.
"People who don't know anything should keep their mouths shut and spare the rest of us from their ignorant remarks."
"Look bitch . . ." Another hard slap, this time to the right cheek.
"You'll speak when spoken to!"
"Shit . . ." SLAP!
