Dottie and Bree: Episode 10 - Vincent Price and Upsidedown Clown Frown

Dottie and Bree: Episode 10

Dottie wasn’t a great driver; she never learned to use a stick shift for its intended purpose. Her only license was to kill. She believed that hell would consist of a white mini-van filled with thirteen screaming children, sans seatbelts, clambering recklessly tugging her hair as she was forced by sharpened dildo to eternally Parallel Park.

Dottie was driving now, and she was doing an excellent job.

Bree lay, possibly dying, in the passenger seat, and Dottie tried to focus on the blurred road, one green eye closed, staying to the right side of the dotted yellow lines. It was the right side, right? She slammed the car into another gear, without clutch, and increased her speed to eighty-eight. Although the engine whirred menacingly, she was doing an excellent job.

Dottie didn’t like to be sober and alone; she thought too much about the past. She flipped on the radio and was confronted with “Thriller”. Her mind drifted to 1984 and the duct tape and the chair and the kidnapping and the Vincent Price.

She used her bruised knees to control the car’s drift and pulled her long blond curls into pig tails like she did when she was six. Her hair was strait and brown then, and her darkened roots appeared along the part between the sections. It was time for a touch up. She wondered how much dye cost in Mexico or if she should shave her head and eyebrows, let it grow naturally and paint her brows on with Sharpie like the local gangsta putas. Sometimes those Mexican whores got them all uneven, and Dottie wondered if that was a purposeful maneuver. Would she have to compete with the local whores for the attentions of the tourists? Would the locals be her clientele? How many cholas would she have to bust down with Ninja stars to secure her turf?

Her mind was drifting dangerously now with the car and the Braille bumps on the road and dust clouds rising reminded her to focus on doing an excellent job. She was here to save Bree. She was going to do this right. Dottie nodded with resolve, straitened her shoulders, and brought the car back to its rightful place on the RIGHT side of the road.

They had stolen her in a windowless white van from her front yard. She was playing under a blue blue sky with blonde Barbie dolls in the green green grass when they came and slid open the noisy door and pulled her by the hair into the grey metal shell. She lost a nail when they slammed the door on her big toe and covered her mouth with smelly wet t-shirt as she tried to scream. She woke up in a dirty orange room with a brown striped couch on thick blue shag carpet with a swollen throbbing nail-less toe. It smelled like dog poop and popcorn and her mouth tasted of rusty metal coins and burnt plastic.

“Greatest American Hero” played soundlessly on the rabbit eared television in the corner and Dottie liked his blonde curly hair and bright tight red suit with the little triangle she could barely read. He had boots; Dottie liked boots. She promised herself to get hair like that someday: blond and curly and long. She would defeat evil and fly; Dottie would fly higher than anyone.

“She’s really cute. Isn’t she cute?” He drooled and panted like a puppy as his female partner snarled coyote-like at little Dottie. She had no eyebrows. They seemed drawn on with pen. They were confusingly high and shaped like angry clown frowns.

“Go get some fucking peanut butter, asshole. She needs to eat something with those pills.”

Little Dottie glimpsed metal wind chimes made of discarded forks out the front door that sparkled and tinkled as he left. The sky was still blue as the door slammed shut.

The attacking brow-less Mexican turned off the lights and turned the stereo up, blasting “Thriller”, shaking the walls and rumbling Dottie’s heart. She encroached menacingly and mouthed the evil Vincent Price monologue getting closer and closer to her face. Tip-toeing with strange and disjointed dance like steps, smiling and chuckling and growling. Her breath smelled like jalapeños and rotten green onions as she gripped Dottie’s throat in her sharp claws and whispered,

“Darkness falls across the land.The midnight hour is close at hand.Creatures crawl in search of blood,to terrorize y'awl's neighborhood.And whosoever shall be found,without the soul for getting down,must stand and face the hounds of helland rot inside a corpse's shell.The foulest stench is in the air,the funk of fourty thousand years.And grizzly ghouls from every tombare closing in to seal your doom.And though you fight to stay alive,your body starts to shiver.For no mere mortal can resist,the evil of the thriller.”

She laughed and laughed until the crying and shaking Dottie passed out from behind her duct taped mouth.

Dottie hated this memory and vowed to kill a Mexican whore with painted brows when they finally made it. She would take her revenge; she would kill again.

She was driving with excellent speed and purpose toward Mexico.