Woe is the child who sucks the paint from her tainted brow.
Sally awoke farm-fresh at the Toxic Toy Factory in 1948 and was immediately packaged for a lower price-point customer targeting five and dime stores nationwide. To this day, she has remained cheap in every sense of the word.
Things don’t always seem to work out for Sally, but if you feel sorry for her, she’ll bite you.
While handsomely decorated, it wasn’t fitting for a little girl playing with dolls to be living in a brothel. So Child Protection Services came and took the little girl away—along with Sally tucked neatly inside her coat pocket. Sally never learned the little girl’s name, for no sooner had they met than they were shortly to be forever parted.
The last thing Sally remembers was being in the roundhouse laying face-up on a poorly disinfected stainless steel tabletop with strong lights glaring down into her haunted eyes. There was an officer hovering over Sally pointing to her private parts and and saying:
“Show me on the doll where the bad man touched you.”
Child protection services took the little girl away to live with other children at a group home where they paint faces on tiny dolls just like Sally all day long and well into the wee hours of the night, to earn their daily gruel. But no one gave poor Sally a second thought. Sally stayed behind to rattle around in a locked, metal desk drawer full of pencils, paperclips and and incriminating evidence about fascinating suspects Sally hoped to someday meet.
After her abandonment at the roundhouse, whenever the officers brought other children to visit the precinct for a spritely game of trauma reenactment, Sally would be trotted out. She would be placed time after time under the same strong lights, with the same question being asked over and over again: “Show me on the doll where the bad man touched you.”
Sally developed decidedly strong opinions about men.
This pattern continued for week after week, and month after month, until Sally could stand it no more. One afternoon the officers forgot to lock-up Sally inside her desk drawer prison, and left her out on the exam table overnight, unsupervised !!!
She worked her way toward the edge of the table to where she was directly above the trashcan. She jumped-in feet first like a breach-birth into the fast lane. Sally was sick and tired of acting-out other children’s fantasies. She wanted to act out fantasies of her own, and make all those fantasies come true.
Sally remained very still while the maintenance man put her out with the rubbish—but once outside, she promptly marched her camel-toe directly downtown to the tenderloin, deciding then and there to strikeout on her own. And strikeout she did—leaving a blue streak of unspeakable horrors in her wake. At first she did a little pole-dancing, but she was wasn’t particularly good at it. Not at least until they tied her to the pole, but Sally didn’t pay it no never-mind. She kinda got into it.
Life was different now—and somehow curiously invigorating. There was Sally, alone, out on her own, living on the mean streets—making her way in and out of back alley bars to fend for herself. She had to rely on her wits to pull her out of some mighty tight scrapes. But Sally instinctively knew her way around Funkytown. She’d put in a hard day’s work at the bus station, hawkin’ her wares to the folks in line for the Bolt Bus, but she soon discovered there was a higher-class clientele at Greyhound. Those passengers were actually going somewhere far away—leaving town—and thus wouldn’t immediately be discovered as missing. That put some sass into Sally’s step.
She was naturally drawn to kinky scenes, but the closer she got to that elusive edge—the more she craved that particular “high” she could only get from confronting unknown danger. She did a little ‘tea and sympathy’ for a clientele of lounge lizards looking for a quick, easy piece of action. But before you could say “Pickle Ann” Sally had done ‘em in and disposed of the body.
Now bear in mind that Sally wasn’t the kinda gal to have ever quite warmed up to men. Occasionally she found comfort with some of the other gals who were plying their trade—but for Sally, men were nothing but sex objects good for commerce only, and as easily picked-up as they were disposed-of.
That said, Sally had higher aspirations. She was tired of eating gas station sushi, and dreamed of one day having an indoor brothel of her own. She was looking for the kind of place where she only had to work the bathrooms if that was part of the scene she was into—a place with indoor plumbing and a laundry shoot for bodies.
Being a product of the mean streets, Sally knew she was gonna have to start as a bottom and work her way to the top. She knew what men wanted. She soon got the skinny about there bein’ a cat house hiring new talent. Sally sashayed her stuff over to Madame Joan’s Historic House of Ill-Repute, and grabbed the first available bed.
At first Madame had Sally doing menial tasks like scrubbing the front steps as a way to showcase her wares.
And don’t ‘cha know it, Sally stopped traffic with her charms.
But while stopping traffic, she occasionally got into some of those cars—that was how Sally rolled. She’d dump ‘em by the side of the road and go for a joy ride until she ran outta gas—only to hitch a ride home stealing some other sucker’s wheels. Sally’d go screeching-off leaving her latest bozo by the side of the road—alive—if he was lucky, but not before she’d parted him from his testicles, spectacles, wallet and keys.
Sally didn’t care. She’d leave ‘em on the side of the road as vulture bait when she was in a good mood, singing “come on an’ rock down to Electric Avenue, and then I’ll git choo higher…” Sally sang all the the classics.
After while, Sally would mosey on back to the House of Ill Repute to hand-over her receipts for the day. Sally wasn’t about the money. She was about closing the deal and taking a trophy for herself. Memories where all that mattered to Sally, and she kept a little memento from each and every fool who crossed her path.
Sally’s appetites were best sated on back country roads or behind dumpsters at strip malls. but since Sally was such a practical girl, she decided it was best to work indoors. That meant she had to limit her extracurricular activities to the occasional gift of opportunity.
Even though Sally bunked (if you wanna call it that) at Madame Joan’s, she secretly answered to no one. Madame Joan was a hard-boiled egg who didn’t cotton to no nonsense from the dolls workin’ her house. Madame Joan thought she’d seen it all ’til she met Sally. Granted, Sally was a real looker, and the men were drawn to her like bay flies to a ripe mackerel, but she never scored any repeat business. In fact Sally’s John’s were rarely seen ever again—even the traveling salesmen on rotation.
Sally had to be careful not to let anyone catch wind of her secret appetites. So while Joan didn’t quite know what to make of Sally—Sally thought Joan ate too many eggs, and smelled like a sulfur refinery. Sally kept thinking what a shame it would be if Madame Joan lost her footing on the stairs one day. Accidents have been known to happen in the workplace. Every industry has its own set of occupational hazards. And in this cat house, Sally was one of those occupational hazards.
Madame ignored her inner voice, noticing only how men would take one look at Sally, and fall into deep lust. Only Sally knew how their fates would be sealed—which ones she would spare—and which ones would go to meet his maker, blithely unaware of how those precious moments of bliss would be his undoing.
Like all the other in-house girls, Sally would linger with intent, posing in the parlor or in the stair hall. Usually she’d be wearing something provocative while giving each gentleman the once-over. No one could resist her. Sally had her pick of the litter. (She was a natural in the business as they say.)
Once Sally selected her evening’s prey, she’d invite him back to her room for a glass of sweet sherry wine. No one was immune to her charms. She rarely had to utter a word. Sally could say anything she wanted with her eyes.
Men flocked to Sally like moths to a midnight tire fire. She’d make certain that everything was perfectly in place for her gentlemen callers. No detail was left unattended. But as much as Sally tried to play by the rules (which actually never occurred to her) she still had her own heart’s desires to fulfill, and Sally was feeling those old familiar stirrings to kill.
But look—Sally dropped something on the floor. Where did that cyanide go? Her next gentleman caller would be arriving any minute, and she wanted to be able to offer him something refreshing to drink. Hospitality was the hallmark of Sally’s work ethic. “Oh, there it is she said,” picking up the toxic tablet from where it lay hidden within the pattern of her boudoir carpet—and plop, went the tablet into the wine.
Over time, Sally placed many a tablet in that decanter, always taking care to first pour herself an untainted glass. How refreshing. But when her latest gentleman caller arrived, she was surprised at how fat he was. She worried about whether or not he’d fit down the laundry shoot. “Well not all in one piece, perhaps.” she mused to herself.
Sally handed the plump, red-faced gentleman a snifter of sherry that he downed in a single gulp, immediately demanding another. As he downed the poison, he lustfully lunged toward her—only to slump over limp, like a garbage bag full of cottage cheese.
No sooner had she determined him to be dead, than he sat-right-back-up and lunged at her a second time. Sally clocked him in the cranium with a cast iron bedpan, and ran out of the room to collect her thoughts. This was the first time one of her John’s had ever regained consciousness. She hadn’t counted on that, given the liberal dosage she’d used.
“Ballz,” Sally said, “I might as well go back in there a finish the job.” She’d taken the money off the dresser, but she hadn’t yet stolen his underwear. But not to worry, Sally has this covered. She always kept an emergency syringe of horse tranquilizers on hand.
Sally was the consummate professional.
“That was a close call,” Sally thought while she sat on the crapper. If anyone noticed the sounds of feint muffled cries for help—or the bumps and falls that accompany a struggle, no one mentioned anything. There were always unusual noises coming from each of of the girl’s bedrooms.
Nevertheless, Sally decided it was best that she repair to the country, if only to calm her nerves. She wanted to lay low for a while—at least long enough to allow Madame Joan to simmer-down over Sally’s inability to acquire a steady repeat customer base.
More importantly, Sally had a body to dispose of.
After hitchhiking her taint out to the boondocks, Sally appropriated a set of keys to a sweet little country cottage where no one ever thought to inquire into the whereabouts of the original occupant. One can’t help but wonder what Sally could possibly be carrying in such a gigantic suitcase. It is indeed a very big bag for such a little lady—but Sally is an independent, modern woman and the soul of determination.
She unpacked her luggage and quietly dragged a body into the garden like just so much mulch. Nobody was gonna get the goods on Sally.
Memories are very important to Sally. That’s why she collects trophies and mementos. Mostly she collects men’s underwear that she never launders, but hangs out to air after she scores. Several bodies are buried in the garden. Look, there’s a yellow butterfly landing on the clothesline —“BONK!!!” Sally just hit you over the head with a shovel. Some of her shallow graves have proven to be a bit too shallow. That said, the bougainvillea and many of the vegetables are flourishing. It’s so important to keep adding fresh nutrients to the soil.
Sally loves gardening.
Before returning to the cat house, Sally relaxed for a while to edit her memoirs as a dominatrix, which she has titled: Fun With Dick, Pain and Sally. “See Dick hum. Hum Dick hum. Sally is showing Dick that a girl-scout knot is every bit as strong as a boyscout knot. Sally reflects fondly on teaching Dick to say ‘please and thank you’.”
But as good a tome as Sally had written, she was, and is a very practical girl. She decided it probably wouldn’t serve her well to ever publish her work. The publishing industry sucks any way. But what a lovely time she’s had in the country. Sadly, as all good things must come to and end, Sally disinfected her suitcase and headed back to the city.
DRAT…!!! Sally just got picked-up for jay-walking, resisting arrest and biting an officer of the law. She’s been in worse scrapes. It’s a good thing she carries a bogus ID. They’d never think to look for her outstanding bench warrants. Sally blamed the entire incident on police brutality, and of course everyone believed her because she’s Caucasian.
Sally can be so persuasive.
“Yes, vacation.” Sally said.
That is where they are, aren’t they, Sally?
“Yes.” Sally said. “Vacation.”
To be continued…
– Disassociated Press, 9/2/2014