Free The Choking of a Beautiful Girl by the Bastard George Clooney by Huck Pilgrim

The Choking of
a Beautiful Girl by the Bastard George Clooney

    She has a delicate face, a slim figure.
    Shrugging her elbow from the hand of the man
escorting her, she looks at the brown people packed onto the floor
of the casino. She is nineteen, maybe twenty. Furious. The man at
her arm is old enough to be her father. He is thin, wizened. He
lets his hand float in the air near her arm. He sighs. His lips
press together, making a tight little line under his thick
mustache. He gives her a tired smile and nods in the direction he
wants her to go. He averts his eyes. Folding her sun-kissed arms
under her small breasts, she scowls. She is wearing an expensive
Egyptian cotton top, tight jeans. The top is sleeveless, all the
better to endure the stifling Mexican heat.
    Why did it have to be Mexico? Her blue eyes
blaze. When the man reaches for her elbow to get her walking again,
she hisses. Her cheeks have faint acne scars, but her high
cheekbones hide this imperfection.
    “Senorita,” he says. His voice is plaintive.
Pleading.
    Two men in dark shirts skirt the roulette table,
moving fast. She sees them coming toward her and bites the inside
of her cheek, bracing herself for confrontation. Her nipples
stiffen. She appreciates a good fight, likes it a little rough
sometimes. The man makes a gesture with his head and the two stop.
They are younger than he is. They fold their arms and glare, like
hounds at bay. One of them puffs out his cheeks, blows air from his
mouth.
    “Senorita,” the man whispers. He clips the last
syllable, holds out his hand.
    Balling her fists, she sets her boney shoulders
and starts walking, her honey-blonde hair shimmering with each
step. Her heels clip on the tile floor. The walls are painted that
horrid orange you find in Mexican restaurants. Why do Mexicans
always use such tacky colors?
    She strides through the casino, not really sure
where she is headed or why. The man is behind her now, but there
really is only one way to go. When she exits the casino through an
arch and finds herself in a courtyard, it’s not clear which way he
will want to go, so she stops. He trots to catch up. He points to a
door that leads through a small restaurant with booths against the
walls, small square tables piled into the middle, and young
families milling about. The people here are eating and talking.
Watching the television on the wall. Three children wearing diapers
and little else race past her. One child reaches for her, trying to
put its sticky hands on her designer jeans, palms opening and
closing. It wants money.
    She moves a chair between her and the child.
    The old man leads her down a hall, then into a
narrow stairwell that circles around. The walls are yellow, peeling
plaster. Bleeding. They go around and around and down a long way,
and then he opens a heavy wooden door at the bottom. She has a bad
feeling but goes inside. Her eyes need time to adjust to the dark.
She can smell incense burning, hear soft familiar sounds. It soon
becomes apparent that there are almost half a dozen people in the
room, some kneeling at the wall.
    Is it a church service?
    The far wall has holes cut into it, and then a
cock appears in one of the holes. The noises are wet slurping
sounds. Her mouth dries up and a throb of terror fills her
chest.
    Turning on her heel, she makes for the door.
    The Mexican who led her into this room grabs
her, fingers digging into her arms. She twists an arm free but he
forces her hard against a wall, his hand winding into her hair. She
tries to knee him between his legs, but it’s a glancing blow and he
just laughs. Her head is yanked back as his chest crowds her. His
hand is on her breasts. She whimpers, trying to twist out of his
grasp. His hand sinks past her belly, down between her legs.
    Her breathing is getting shallower. Her legs
feel weak.
    He cups her pussy.
    And then her scalp sings with pain and her
vision goes white—she finds herself on her knees. Putting her arms
over her head,