Dottie and Bree: Episode 7- Nacho Cheese solves most problems

Dottie and Bree: Episode 7

Bree was 10 miles east of Soberville, but she figured out which direction was South from the positioning of the sprouting stars in the darkened sky. She used to watch the cosmos with her step-father until he began to abuse their late night summer star forays by reaching a shovel roughened hand into her Holly Hobby panties. “When you see a shooting star, you get to make a wish, Bree.” She was too small and delicate to fight his advances, but started asking for cash at 11. By 13, her mother found Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and Channell #5 perfume at the bottom of her sock drawer.

Dottie’s eyes blazed with anger and were ringed with sadness and disappointment. She slurred and sludged her dramatic diatribe. “Why? Why did he do that? It came out of nowhere. We were having fun and you were making money, and he was being so sweet and kept saying words with that accent, and we were drinking and drinking and the music was playing, and your dancing was great, by the way- really some of your best work; magical even, and I wanted him to come with us to Mexico…” She reached into her bag and emerged with a Styrofoam container of nacho cheese and chips. She tried not to let her tears fall into the crunchy snack.

“We don’t need a man when we have nacho cheese, Dottie. Men are nothing but unpredictable trouble. They never do what you want; they always want to fight. Just take their money and sell them what they need. Could you feed me while I drive?”

“But I liked him.” Dottie pleaded, placing a fluorescent cheese doused chip into Bree’s open mouth. Her teary eyes focused on her own reflection in the window as the rushing blackness obscured all rational thought. “He’s the only man in 6 years I didn’t want to kill upon first glance. I would have fucked him for free.” She crunched down and fed Bree another smothered treat.

“Dottie, we’re whores. We have sex with people for money. The only person I love is you.” Bree wanted to slap some dignity into her, but they had sold that long ago. Pride was dead to both of them, and any attempts at reclaiming it now would entail an exorcist, a vat of holy water, the BBQed ribs of the Dali Lama (they could gnaw on the delicious bones and let the karma drip down their chins), three aborted fetus’ and a kind word from a father figure in 1979.

All this talk of love made Bree want to kill again. She was seething and drunk and breathing fire. Horns began to emerge sharply from her brow as the coarse thick coat of hide sprung from her once smooth skin. Her fingertips, still crusted in blood from her last battle, condensed and hardened into hoofs making it difficult to drive on the darkened roadway. She glanced in the rearview mirror to see her once green eyes grown large and brown and distinctly cow like.

The trunk rattled and groaned with fury. The car shook and wavered on the roadway. Whatever was in there was ready to explode forth with the heat of 1000 volcanoes. Lava would spew with unfathomable destruction. The flying red objects in the side mirror were closer than they appeared, flapping bat-like wings ominously with dragon tails and slanted pointed eyes and ears.

They were after her; she would not escape this round.

Bree would have to fight.

Dottie calmly ate nacho cheese in the passenger seat.