The fancypants penmonkey you all know as Chuck Wendig has laid out yet another flash fiction challenge. This one suggests—indeed, even demands—profanity, both in title and in the body of the work. Given that I am forever twelve years old at heart, I can’t help but oblige. Now, pay attention: This thing’s got profanity leaking out of its orifices. It doesn’t matter which orifices, just understand it has them and bad words are leaking from all of them. If you do not like it, do not read. Seriously, don’t. Okay? Okay.
For those of you keeping track at home, this marks only the second flash fiction I’ve done for Terribleminds, but in my defense, I wanted my blog done first. So, without further ado, I give you…
The Cunny Bunny of Studio 7
I like sex. There’s nothing wrong with liking sex, either, so as the word settled over my shoulders, I tilted my head and smiled.
His eyes flicked to me. Narrowed. Then slid back to the paper held between his hands. For a long moment, only the sound of the air conditioner filled the small, white room with its white furniture and white carpeting. All white. All pristine. All perfect.
“Oh, please.” I couldn’t stop myself on that one. Jezebel? Really? Who even said that anymore?
Again, his eyes rose to me, but this time, I saw a faint snap of irritation in the sudden press of his lips. I shifted on the hard white stool, aware that if I moved any more than a few millimeters in a given direction, I’d slide right off. Not the impression I hoped to make, here.
The papers rustled as he shook them between his gloved hands. Gloves. The man sported an expensive suit no rack had ever seen and he wore black latex gloves. I suppressed a smile. Clearing his throat pointedly, he added, “From ’02.”
“Oh, that.” I ran my fingers through my hair, red as blood and about as stark as a murder scene in this pristine white room. I resisted the urge to shift again, knowing he’d only be irritated by the sound of my white vinyl skirt against the wooden seat. “That was an odd year.”
They usually are, but he wasn’t interested in my small talk.
“To be fair,” I said as my chin came up, “he’d only just finished watching a movie. There were no horses involved.” I paused. “Well, in that incident, anyway.”
He sighed, a snap of annoyance, and rustled the papers again as if he were reading a newspaper.
I rolled my eyes. But only in my head. I could have rolled them across the floor, but I felt the display would only land me in trouble. “Sorry,” I muttered, “go on.”
“In related terms,” he said, slowly as if skimming as he spoke, “I see here cock-juggling thundercunt.”
“That’s the one I would have used first,” I said, lacing my fingers across my smooth knee. “If I had to choose something from that movie.” I kicked my foot, clad in white sandals with a heel that added five inches to my already impressive height. “But come on, they’re both from movies. Can’t they be stricken?”
“Done.” He said the word before I’d even finished talking, and two of the papers slid to the white floor. White on white. He loved the color. Non-color. Which is why when I had to meet with the boss, I always wore it. And left my hair, nails and lips crimson. It annoyed him. I liked annoying him.
“Meat-curtain—” I winced. “—slurping grandmother-fucker.”
Of all the things to be called, anything involving flaps of meat was an inelegant as it came. But it was viable, nonetheless, so I said nothing. To be fair, that grandmother had been nitro on wheels.
For another long moment, the air conditioner whirred. Finally, he looked up, his black eyebrows arched high on his forehead. I saw his gaze touch my hair first. Then my lips. It was as if he couldn’t help himself. Then his eyes met mine, and I read… what? Was that respect? Begrudging though it might be? “Bald-headed strumpet.”
Okay, so I was inordinately proud of that one.
“I don’t know what a hosebeast is,” I admitted.
“I wear white well,” I pointed out, and for the first time in centuries, I saw a corner of his mouth twitch. Just a flicker. Well, fuck a toothpick, the guy was almost hot when he got twitchy.
“The rest are beneath notice,” he said as he tucked the papers into the provided envelope. “The usuals I’d expect.”
Now, I straightened, watching him closely for any sign of his thoughts. Had I passed? Had I done well enough to move to the next ring? I didn’t know, and couldn’t read it in his implacable expression.
He made a show of tucking the folder in with the others, as if to point out that I wasn’t the only applicant here. He rose from his white leather chair, adjusting his white jacket with neat, precises tugs. “What was your name?”
“Bunny,” I said. Like he’d forgotten, the scheming bastard.
“I’m sure it is. You lack the highest quota of souls, you understand.”
I held my breath.
“But your references speak for themselves.” He offered a hand, a gesture he hadn’t bothered to make in years. My fingers closed over the cool surface of latex. “Welcome to Studio 7, Bunny.”
I had to play it cool, but my… well, no, I don’t have a heart. I was always cool. I smiled, a red-lipped thing I caught him eying thoughtfully. “Thank you, sir.”
“Studio 6 had high praise for your work. Don’t let me down.”
A door opened soundlessly behind me, and I pivoted on my spike heels.
Before I could take a step, a fist closed in my long red hair. I jerked to a stop, my eyes suddenly pinned on the white ceiling above me. Hot breath wafted across my ear, filling my nose with sulfur and brimstone as he added softly, “And next time, Bunny, leave the red at the door.”
When he let me go, I strode away as if I weren’t rattled to the bone. But I hid my smile. Leave it? When I knew how much dear old Lucifer liked the color?
Like hell I would.