Moonshine Dancer

"How can you be so sure?"

"Anything beats having a guy shit in your mouth, or, being fucked daily by ugly strangers picked off from the streets, so that other desperate strangers can jack off."

"I kind of like it," Fey admitted, though somewhat embarrassed.

"Yes, I know, honey," Yvonne smiled. "We'll find a better, safer place to do it, alright? Somewhere, where we're treated with respect and not like pieces of meat hanging in a butcher's window."

"I don't know," Fey bluntly repeated; her mind was still haunted by the image of Irene, by their one show together, by the affection and passion she felt (or thought she felt) during those last, intense moments of their mutual climax.

Suddenly, the apartment's door burst open with a loud THUD and a flushed Stan stormed in.

"Come on, get off your asses! We're leaving, now!" Stan said in a trembling, yet commanding voice.

"What the Hell?" Fey protested. "What are you doing here? You broke my fucking door!"

"Fuck your door!" Stan barked at her. "If you want to live, you must follow me; you must leave."

"What are you talking about?" Yvonne asked, shakily, while still seated on the floor holding the moonshine glass.

"Mr. Hughes heard you're thinking of bailing out; he's fucking pissed. Wants your heads on a pole."

"What?" Yvonne cried. "It's not possible, how did he..."

"Irene told him," Stan explained, nervously looking behind his back at the hallway. "Will you hurry? I was sent here to detain you... I'm giving you a brief chance to run."

"Fey, did you talk to that bitch?" Yvonne threw a scornful glance at her friend.

"I thought... wanted her to join us, to save her from..."

"You fucking idiot!" Yvonne screamed at Fey, then turned her focus back on Stan. "And why should we trust you? You're Mr. Hughes' most faithful bulldog!"

"You've got two choices: either take your chances and trust me," Stan stretched his index finger, "or, stay here till the crew arrives. It won't be pretty, I can promise you that."

"How can we be sure this isn't just a trap?" Yvonne insisted, while Fey had already gotten up, throwing small, meaningful things in her purse.

"See?" Stan pointed at Fey packing. "She's smarter than you; stay here, and it's certain doom. Come with me... I wouldn't have come to warn you, if I was planning to kill you; I'm putting my ass on the line by warning you.

"Can't you see that, you dense bitch?"

"Fuck you," Yvonne said to him coldly; however, she put the glass down and got up.

"Ready?" Stan asked them anxiously. "Good; let's go. Move it."

He walked ahead of them, checking behind every corner.

They made it to the streets without an incident.

"Get in," he pointed at the black car parked unceremoniously on the pavement; the two women got in, both realizing they might just have signed their death warrants.

Stan climbed in the driver's seat and sped through the traffic, performing extremely dangerous maneuvers, at times driving on the opposite lane and gunning through every light—red, yellow, and green—indiscriminately.

When Fey got into the car, she caught a brief glimpse of the young man living across her apartment; she felt her heart drowning, as she realized that after six years of offering him nightly shows, she never even learned his name—he did catch a glimpse of her and for the first, and probably last, time, they stared into each other's eyes. Fey offered him a warm, affectionate smile, but, she could not tell whether he had been able to discern it.

After a twenty-minute wild ride through the neighborhood, they reached the train station—every day trains drove by, but, it was highly rare passengers got on, or off, them; it was cargo that was unloaded, while passengers coming through the neighborhood tried to remain hidden, until they left the notorious neighborhood behind.

"Wow, hey," the train master yelled, when they rushed in the platform, heading for the train slowly stopping. "Where are you going?"

"To the train," Stan told him coldly. "You got a fucking problem with that?" He opened his jacket, showcasing his holstered handgun with a stern gaze.

"Mr. Hughes's not going to like that, Stan," the train master coldly stated, with a disapproving shake of his head.

"I don't give a fuck," Stan barked back. "Just don't get in our way and nothing's going to happen to you."

"I can't do that, man," the train master protested. "Mr. Hughes will cut my balls, if he finds out I let you go."

"Fine," Stan sighed. "Then, tell him you fought bravely, but, got injured."

Without another word, Stan pulled his gun and shot the train master on the knee; the train master let out a roaring painful cry, as he dropped to the ground, holding his burst kneecap.

"I'm sorry, Dan," Stan whispered sorrowfully, then helped the two women in the wagon.

Then, he too jumped in the train—the train whistled and its engine roared, as it gradually sped away. Stan saw Mr. Hughes' henchmen storming the platform, wielding their guns.

"Wow," he sighed in relief, as he sat heavily on his seat, "that's what I call a cinematic escape."

"Life can be fair sometimes, huh?" Fey smiled faintly.

"Why did you come with us? Why did you help us?" Yvonne inquired, still suspicious.

"What," Stan chuckled dryly, "you think you're the only ones dissatisfied with Mr. Hughes and the way he runs things? Do you know how many people actually dream of escaping, of going to the real world? Almost no one actually likes living in this forgotten from progress dump.

"I saw my chance, and took it. Besides, I was about to be demoted too... replaced by new guns, younger and more ruthless guys, bloodthirsty, eager to do whatever Mr. Hughes ordered them.

"No way in hell I was going to become a low-ranking dog, running menial errands."

They paid the hefty fine for not having a ticket—which deprived them of almost all their cash—and watched silently the city changing, as they headed downtown. Modern buildings, modern outfits—everything so different, they felt as if the train had taken them through a wormhole and into an altogether different time period.

"What are we going to do now?" Fey asked.

"I don't know," Yvonne shrugged her shoulders. "Find a way to fit in with the rest of the world—preferably as far away from home as possible."

"I second that plan," Stan jumped in. "Somewhere far far away."

"Yeah," Fey sighed deeply; with a heavy heart she turned her dreamy gaze to the window.