#pl;p

[hankfoxxx]

conveyance | perrie & hank

He was rarely attracted to skinny girls. Something about their knobby joints and the starved glint in their eyes that illuminated their gaunt cheeks evoked a twinge of disgust in his stomach. But Perrie wasn’t fashionably thin. Hank knew she lived on a dilapidated houseboat with her brother and deadbeat uncle, who spent most of his disability checks on Bud Light and Oxycontin. She attained her sunken shoulders and leathery skin not from fad diets and spray tan, but from impoverished hunger and manual labor, and he could respect her beauty in that sense. 

He spotted her swiftly padding down the property line, the wind ruffling her shabby T-shirt and tousling the curtain of dirty brown hair that flowed almost to her waist. He attempted to politely glance away as she climbed the fence, but his eyes fixated on her naked legs and the dimple where the top of her thigh ended and the bottom of her ass began. His eyes closed, briefly entertaining sexual fantasies, until he heard her footsteps. Hank didn’t speak to her until they were both in the shed. “You’re like an hour late. Lucky for you Cordelia’s not here right now. Did D.L. double my order, like I asked?”

[petitperrie]

Perrie didn't even bother to roll her eyes at the clipped, tough-guy edge in his voice. "Lucky for you he did." She slung her bag on a rickety table that was jumbled with tools. A flashlight crashed to the floor and rolled toward Hank's feet. "Sorry if I kept you from your busy schedule of doing nothing and jacking off." She threw in a suggestively-raised eyebrow for good measure. The mention of anything remotely sexual usually added a few dollars to her tip. Reaching into the bag, she stacked two plastic sandwich bags on the table, each bulging with clumps of dried marijuana leaves. "That's 300 you owe me."

[petitperrie]

conveyance | perrie & hank

She wore her shortest shorts on delivery days. When she didn't, the shady, backdoor businessmen she visited were less inclined to add a few extra dollars to their payment amount, and she relied on their sleazy tips to put food on the table. The paltry forty bucks her uncle gave her to make the deliveries barely paid for her travel expenses. Perrie hurried down the sidewalk as the wind picked up, blasting her tan legs with an icy chill, as she passed rows of neat and elegant antebellum homes, protected from the grimy New Orleans streets by tall, iron fences. When she reached a massive house with a huge porch, and majestic white columns, Perrie checked to make sure no one was watching and hustled along the fence toward the backyard.

She always met him at the shed, never the big house, as he called it. He told her he didn't want any of the staff or students to know what he was up to, but Perrie knew the true reason for covertness. He didn't want to tell his wife why a skinny river rat with stringy hair and a sunken chest showed up once a month with a tattered, secondhand messenger bag tossed over one shoulder. Perrie reckoned he kept many other secrets from his wife; she got the impression that their marriage wasn't a happy one, or, at best, a hollow one. Wedging one dingy sneaker between the iron rails, Perrie hoisted herself up and over the fence, carefully avoiding the massive spikes at the top. Her feet hit the soft dirt with a slap, sending a stinging sensation up the length of her legs. Perrie winced and, after dusting off the bottom of her messenger bag, continued down the length of the fence. Hank leaned against the door of the shed, waiting for her, and gave her a nod before opening the door and stepping inside.

[petitperrie]

festivus | per, els, mal & ev

She chucked the whiskey bottle at the boy, perhaps too forcefully, and wedged one of the cigarettes between her lips. "Go easy on it. I don't want to talk to another dumbshit to get more." His starkly pallid face almost glowed in the harsh streetlights, the shadows concealing various parts of his angular face as she tilted her head to one side. "I'm guessing you don't go to school here." She puffed out a cloud of smoke. "Me neither. Did your girlfriend drag you here? Or--" she glanced at the tall boy in a cardigan who kept looking at them "--your boyfriend maybe?"

[xxelias]

festivus | per, els, mal & ev

I guess no one is really what they seem.

He sure as hell wasn’t.

His eyes followed his friend’s line of vision and he observed the feral looking girl; another wild beast trapped among the innocent, primed for an unsuspecting tragedy to take place. If they had followed her here for any good reason, he had forgotten it now, but it was a little too late to retract his mistake and make the hike back to Robichaux’s alone. Stalking on Malachi’s heels, looking much like a retro horror show monster, perhaps Nosferatu or a stretched version of Frankenstein’s monster, he wished for some divine intervention while staring down at his shoes and when he glanced up he was somehow face to face with a startled looking, wide-eyed brunette clutching a bottle of whiskey protectively to her chest.

[petitperrie]

She sucked in a huge breath--chest swelling, cheeks expanding-- and opened her mouth to shout at the skeletal, pointy-chinned boy who foolishly wandered into her path, but the deep, dead blackness of his eyes sucked her anger away. Perrie expelled the breath quickly and clicked her tongue. "Hey lost boy, you got a cig I can bum? Or better yet--" she wiggled her fingers into the tiny pocket of her tight cut-offs and produced a wad of brown, wrinkled dollars. "--you got a few to spare? I'll give you a dollar a smoke." She cradled the Maker's bottle and waved the dollars under the boy's nose.