Swipe
Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz © 2007
It had turned out to be a wasted Friday night so R.W. and C. Dennis were heading home. Then they passed that nigger gal going the opposite way on Corvelle Road.
R.W. glanced across the front seat to find his buddy grinning just as wide so he made a sharp u-turn off the side of the road and pressed the gas pedal.
A good scare or some pussy; either one or both would turn the night around.
“Don't let her get away,” C. Dennis said. He was pressed against the dashboard, his hands clenching it.
“She ain't going nowhere,” R.W. said. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, pressed the pedal harder `til he was roaring up alongside her. Strategically, he turned sharply, veering his car back into right the lane. Hers, going off the road like he wanted.
R. W. and C. Dennis were out of their car before she was out of hers. She didn't even make it past the car's fin tail.
“What's your hurry?” R. W. asked, his arm tight on her arm.
“We just wanted to say hello,” C. Dennis said.
R.W. yanked her back, pressing her against the car's trunk, pinning her there with the weight of his body. He only laughed as she struggled. “Rough's all right with me,” he whispered, leaning forward.
She wrestled her mouth from his lips.
R.W. stepped back, her arm still tight in his hand. With his free one, he ran his fingers along the low-cut collar of her dress.
She pulled away.
R.W. laughed as he caught the dress material and the brassiere underneath in his grip and yanked.
Two rolled-up balls of something fell free to the ground in soft thuds.
Another angry yank, this time the exposed panties and, released, a flaccid penis fell into view from between the legs where it had been tucked.
“What the fu—”
The wig was off next.
R.W. looked over at C. Dennis, his confusion and surprise was mirrored in his buddy's face. He turned.
In the glow of the taillights, the man looked comedic with that red lipstick smeared across his cheek, but R.W. was thinking that probably wasn't why C. Dennis looked like he wanted to laugh about something.
R.W. began to lift his hand to his mouth, but stopped mid-motion then used it to smack the thin, trembling man to the ground. Standing over the body at his feet, he reached into his pocket. He knelt. Made an angry swipe between the man's legs.
“You weren't wanting it no how,” R.W. hissed, hands emptying onto the ground. He stood. He spit into the blood puddling. He wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve.