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The Prettiest Face in Hell

Jon Bassoff

I was hunched over a trashcan vomiting an evening’s worth of burritos, whiskey, and misery, when this pretty fellow named Ponso Aguello grabbed me by the shoulders, spun me around, and slammed his meaty fist into my jaw.  I performed a drunken pirouette, mumbled a pair of Hail Marys, and crashed to the alley asphalt.  The burly young man stood over me grinning, his newly shined Italian shoe pressed into my chest. 

“Goddamn,” he said.  “You surely is an ugly son-of-bitch.”

“Like a monkey with Down syndrome,” I rasped. 

“A friend of mine told me about you,” he said.  “He told me all about you.”

“The hell are you talking about?  I haven’t done anything wrong.  I’m a good boy.” 

“Told me how you been showing up at the club night after night to watch my girl Scarlett jiggle.  Told me how one night you even followed her home.  Told me how he spotted you climbing up a cottonwood, trying to get another peak.  You’re a sick fuck, ain’t you boy?”

I spit out a loose tooth and wiped off some blood with my forearm.  “You’re friend is a goddamn liar,” I said.  “I’m no peeping Tom.  I’m an upstanding citizen.”    

But Pretty Ponso didn’t believe me.  Without fair warning, he swung his leg back and kicked me three times on the side, causing me to fart and spit up bile.  Then he squatted down next to me, patted my cheek with the palm of his hand, and said, “Listen to me, you freak.  You stay away from her, you hear?  Scarlett is my property until further notice.  Don’t talk to her, don’t look at her, don’t even think about her.  ‘Cause next time, I’m not gonna be so gentle.  Next time they’ll be scraping your deformed face from this here asphalt.” 

Ponso got back to his feet, kicked me one more time for good measure, and strode slowly toward Main Street.  With great effort I managed to pull myself to a sitting position.  Then I shouted after him. “To hell with you,” I said.  “You’re not so tough.  Next time you’re gonna wish you didn’t mess with Frankie Hammond.  ‘Cause I’m a mean motherfucker.  I know Kung Fu.  I know Pilates.”  But Ponso didn’t turn around, didn’t even slow down.   Feeling defeated and more than a little bit tired, I lay back down on the asphalt, using a half-eaten rotisserie chicken as a pillow.  Soon I was asleep.  I dreamed I was dead.  It was the best dream I’d had all month. 

I should tell you about myself, not that you care.  I was born and conceived in the same place: the restroom of a Sinclair Gas Station.  My father was a decent, God-fearing man who went to church whenever he wasn’t too drunk or stoned to get out of bed.  He was a part-time night custodian, part-time auto mechanic, and a full-time bastard.  He was as dishonest a man as I’ve ever known: the kind of fellow who’d pickpocket his own wallet.  He also had a hell of a temper, and if he suspected, just suspected, that mom was being unfaithful, well, he wasn’t opposed to pressing a lit cigarette against her thigh, or grabbing her by the ponytail and smashing her face against the coffee table.  Just to make sure, you know.  

I loved my mother the way a son should love a mother, and that’s all there is too say about that.  The whispers that I heard, the sideway glances, those were just small-minded people looking to stir up resentment.  But Dad listened to them, yes he did.   And as I became a man, he became more paranoid, more suspicious.  Mom and I might go out for a bite to eat, or maybe to a movie, and Dad would sit in the kitchen and drink and drink and wait and wait.

Then Mom got pregnant, and that was a hell of a thing.  It could have been anybody—Tim Walker, Jeb Pooley, Pastor Duncan.  Maybe even Dad himself.  Mom wasn’t picky.  But Dad’s brain had been so badly contaminated by the local bacteria that he couldn’t think straight.  He was certain that there was some Oedipus misbehavior taking place under his watch.  So one night Dad borrowed Lucky Pincer’s handgun, tied poor Mom to a chair, and shot her six times in the gut.

I should have been so lucky.

*** 

The day after my encounter with Ponso I felt bad, as if I’d gone twelve rounds with Mike Tyson then gotten kicked in the shin by an eight-year old girl wearing soccer cleats.  I went to my job at the landfill, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Scarlett.  She was like a bad pop song spinning around and around my wounded brain. 

At the end of the work day I sat on a busted rocking chair and sucked in the fresh refuse air.  I thought about Ponso’s warning, balanced that with my own need to see Scarlett in the flesh.  “To hell with it,” I muttered, flicking my cigarette into the vast ocean of garbage.  “Love’s a dangerous thing, ain’t it?”

On the east side of Highway 119 was a row of motels, gas stations, diners, and bars.  The Big Bust Gentleman’s Club was one of those bars.  That’s where Scarlett danced.  Tonight there were just a couple of beat-up pickups and El Caminos parked outside.  I searched for a cigarette, found one already stuck between my lips, and lit it. I sucked down the nicotine, carbon monoxide, tar, cyanide, arsenic, formaldehyde, ammonia, and the other 4,000 or so chemicals with great relish.  Then I stepped outside. 

The bar was smoky and seemed silent despite the techno music blasting from the speakers.  It wasn’t much of a strip club, I must admit.  All the girls looked as if they’d been climbing up an ugly tree, tripped, and hit every branch on the way down.  But it didn’t bother me.  I was no prize myself. 

I quickly scanned the joint for Ponso but didn’t see him.  A young girl with vacant eyes and badly shaved pubic hair was swaying back and forth on the center stage.  An old man with a blonde toupee sat alone watching her, a shit-eating grin on his face, a wad of dollar bills in his grubby fist.  A couple of mustachioed Mexicans with cowboy hats sat at the bar.  I sat down and rapped on the counter.  A brunette who was dressed like a stripper but was too old to get paid for it, stood behind the counter.  “What can I get for you, sweetheart?”   

“Everclear with a chase of whiskey,” I said. 

It was six dollars.  I gave her five singles and four quarters and told her to keep the change.  Then I sucked down my drinks and ordered two more.

It wasn’t until nearly eleven o’clock that my love, Scarlett Acres took the stage.  She was a rickety jalopy of a woman, probably a former prom-queen, now just biding her time.  She had bleach-blonde hair, an acne-scarred face, and a gap between her teeth.  About the only thing she had going for her was the fact that she was excessively hefty between her collar bone and sternum.  What I mean by that is she was one deep breath away from giving herself a pair of black eyes. 

When she saw me sitting at the bar, she smiled and winked.  You see, Sweet Scarlett had a special place in her left ventricle reserved for poor old me.  For the next twenty minutes or so, she danced and I watched.  I got harder than astrophysics. 

At the end of her set, she got down on her knees and hoarded the scattered dollar bills on the stage.  Then she took a few steps toward me, and my blood began to rise.  “I heard Ponso paid you a visit,” she said, her hands on her hips.  “I would have thought you’d have learned your lesson.”

“I’m a slow learner,” I said.  “I’ve got the IQ of a corkscrew.”

Scarlett laughed and sat down next to me.  She studied my repulsive face for a moment before asking me to buy her a drink.   

I waved down the bartender and ordered a couple Rum and Cokes without the Coke.  Scarlett raised her glass, said, “You’re persistent, Frankie.  Sometimes that’s a good thing.”

I took a long swallow of my drink and hacked a few times.  “Persistence and hemorrhoids are all I got left.”  

She giggled and went to work on her own drink.  “Let me ask you a question,” she said.

“Go ahead.”

“Why do you like me so much?  I’m not much of anything.”

“Truth?”

“Yeah.”

“You remind me of somebody.”

“Somebody who broke your heart?”

“Something like that.”

I finished my drink and lit a cigarette.  “And let me ask you a question.”

“I might not answer.”

“Do you think you could ever love me?”

Scarlett stared at me for a moment, her eyes serious.  Then a grin spread onto my face, and she started laughing, not your typical superficial laughter, but the kind of laughter that comes from deep within one’s belly, deep within one’s soul.  I just sat there smoking, not sure how to respond.  She was laughing and laughing and hiccupping and farting and belching and peeing and shitting.  She must have laughed for two or three minutes straight, without pause. 

“Some funny stuff, huh?” I said.

“Oh, Frankie, I’m sorry.  Don’t take it personally.  It’s just that—-“

“I’m uglier than geriatric asshole?”

She lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out of the corner of her mouth.  “I won’t lie, that’s part of it,” she said.  “But also, I’m a stripper.  I’m not so big into love.”

“What about Ponso?”

“That bastard?  I don’t love him.  He buys me nice things.  He’s good in the sack.  He’s an attractive man.”

“I see.”

Scarlett touched my hand.  “I’m a shallow person, Frankie.  I don’t deny it.”

I grinned, baring my rotting teeth.  “I’ll be seeing you, Scarlett,” I said.  “You enjoy Ponso’s face, you hear?  You won’t be seeing mine around here no more.”

“Oh sweetie…”

I stumbled out of the club.  I got into my car.  I pounded on the steering wheel a few times.  I straightened up and took a few deep breaths.  I knew I needed to do something productive before all the rage and regret boiled over.  I started thinking and thinking, trying to figure something out.  After mulling through countless possibilities, I finally came to a decision.  I decided that from now on I sure wasn’t going to wait for opportunity to knock; I was going to squeeze it by the goddamn colon.   

 The next day the sun was missing and the world was grey.  I ate some breakfast.  I jerked off.  I showered, shat, and shaved.  Then I hopped in my car and drove down to Dacona to pay an old buddy of mine a visit.  We used to play poker for girlie magazines.  I needed a couple of things and he owed me a favor or two…

 For the rest of the afternoon, I sat in the kitchen smoking cigarettes and drinking beer.  Outside, lightning filed the sky, but there wasn’t any thunder.  A train whistle blew and all the goddamn dogs barked and howled and I said, “Amen, amen.”  Then I lay my head on the table and closed my eyes. 

 By six o’clock I was drunk, and the world was spinning.  I flung a newly-stocked canvas bag over my shoulder and staggered out the front door like a boxer who’s gone one round too many.  I got into my car.  It took me five minutes to fit the key in the keyhole.  I hit the engine and turned on the radio.  It was filled with gospel lies and static.  I weaved through town for awhile.  I ended up at Ponso’s place. 

Ponso lived in a pretty red house with a white picket fence surrounding the property.  An American flag hung above the window, snapping in the breeze.  I parked my car in front of a fire hydrant, grabbed the canvas bag off the passenger-side seat, and kicked the door open.  Outside the wind was kicking up dust.  I grimaced and growled--I was feeling good and ornery.  Some kids were playing catch with a red rubber ball, and it got loose from them.  I retrieved it, told them to find another fucking playing field, and booted it down the street.  This filthy little girl with dirty blonde pigtails glared at me with hateful eyes before chasing after her precious ball.  I pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

I walked up the path and stood on the porch.  Then I rapped on the door a few times and waited.  You’d think a guy as tough and pretty as Ponso would’ve taken a peak out of the window before opening the front door.  What if it would’ve been somebody who wanted to do him harm?  You can never be too careful in this town.  But Ponso was a curious fellow, and he opened the door. 

He was wearing a long red bathrobe with his initials on it.  In his right hand was a glass of fine whiskey.  In his left hand was a cigar.  When he saw me his eyes narrowed into slits and he said, “Huh?” as if I’d said something that he hadn’t heard.        

“I’d like to speak to you for a minute, Ponso,” I said.

“Go fuck yourself.”

Calmly I unzipped the canvas bag.  I pulled out a sawed-off shotgun and showed it to him.  He was impressed.  “What the fuck is that?” he said.

“I carry it around for protection,” I said.  “A fellow can never be too careful in this town.  I mean with all those scary Mexicans roaming the streets, not to mention the Canadians…”

“What are you gonna do Frankie?”

“Mind letting me in?” 

He didn’t answer, but he took a couple of steps back.  I looked over my shoulder, making sure that the little bitch with pigtails wasn’t following me, before stepping inside. 

His apartment was filled with red pleather furniture.  Dramatic paintings of The Last Supper and the Crucifixion covered the walls.  I sat down on the couch, crossed my legs, took a load off.  But Ponso didn’t sit.  He might have been a little nervous. 

“I could use a drink,” I said.

He didn’t move.  “Get on with it,” he said.  “You gonna give me payback for what I done to you?  Get on with it.”

But I wasn’t looking for payback.  I didn’t want revenge.  It’s just that Ponso had something that I needed…

“You may not believe me when I tell you this, but I wasn’t born this ugly,” I said. 

“Christ, here we go…”

“Fact is I was a perfectly respectful looking boy.  Maybe you could have even called me handsome.  Yes sir, back in the day I certainly got the girls.  Got more ass than a toilet seat.”

Ponso frowned and shook his head.  “Why are you telling me this?”

“But my Dad was worried about me.  He saw me as a threat.  He thought that I… He thought that my mother and I… He was wrong.  It didn’t matter.  He killed her first.  And when he was finished with her, he came after me.  I should have run, but I was too scared.  I shat my pants.”

I dropped my cigarette on the floor, crushed it out with my feet.  I continued: “He dragged me out to the woods.  He was strong.  Six foot three, two hundred twenty pounds.  He had a blowtorch and a hammer.  A lady walking her dog found me the next morning.  I was alive.  Some things are worse than dying, Ponso.”

Ponso was scared now, there was no doubt about it.  He was trembling like a leaf with Parkinson’s disease, and his whiskey was spilling from the glass onto the floor.  “You…you gonna do that to me?” he said.

I shook my head.  “I’m no masochist,” I said.

I raised the shotgun and cocked it.  Instinctively, he covered his pretty face with his arms, like he was being attacked by a purse-wielding grandma.  But I wasn’t aiming for his face.  That would have been counterproductive.  My finger tensed and the trigger gave.  A loud explosion echoed in my ears.  The bullet tore through his chest, just below his collar-bone.  He staggered backward, slamming into a wall, knocking over a picture of Christ holding a glass of blood-wine.  Grabbing at his chest, he slid down the wall, plopping down on his ass.  He wasn’t dead yet.  It always takes more than one shot.  I took a few steps forward and fired once, twice, three more times into his twitching body.  Then I watched as he died in a puddle of blood and whiskey and broken glass.      

I returned to the couch and sat down.  As you might imagine, I felt overwhelmed.  It’s a hell of a thing killing a man, a hell of a thing.  I sat in that couch for an hour, maybe more, just staring out the window at the darkness, thinking about everything and nothing at all.

It was nearly nine o’clock and the rain had started falling when I rose to my feet and walked over to the Ponso’s body.  His arms and legs were contorted grotesquely and his mouth was open in an eternal scream.  But he was still pretty.  Prettier than me, anyhow.  Sighing, I got down on my knees.  I pulled a jackknife from the canvas bag.  I started cutting…

*** 

Midnight, and I was leaning against a brick wall, a bent cigarette stuck between my lips, my special canvas bag dangling from my shoulder.  She’d be walking out of that door any minute now.  Lovely, lovely, lovely.   

Outside the rain sounded like distant gunfire.  The asphalt reflected the street lamps and traffic lights and misery.  I leaned against a parking meter and slicked back my hair.  I started humming a tune.  Love Me Tender by Elvis.

 The door to the club opened.  I could hear the music, but it was muffled, blurry.  Scarlett appeared.  When you studied her face, really studied her face, the resemblance was uncanny.  I got a hard-on.  Love me tender, love me sweet, never let me go.  You have made my life complete, and I love you so.

She was wearing a tight pink shirt and a tighter black skirt.  I wondered how long it took her to stuff all that meat inside.  She didn’t see me until it was too late.  I snuck up behind her and grabbed her arm.  She shrieked like a stuck pig.

“I missed you, precious,” I said.

“Oh Frankie,” she said, placing her hand over her fluttering heart.  “You scared me.”

““I’ve got something to show you,” I said.  “It’s a present for you.” 

“Ow.  You’re hurting me.”

I looked down.  I was squeezing her arm so hard that it was turning purple.  

“I’ve got a heart of gold, Scarlett,” I said.

She groaned.  “Frankie, let go of me.  Or I’ll--“

“But apparently, that’s not good enough for you.  You’re more partial to beauty.”

“I’ll scream,” she said.  “I’ll scream and a dozen people will show up.”

“I’d like to know something.  How many times have you pulled down your panties and sat on Ponso’s pretty face?  How many times has he rammed his tongue inside?”

She screamed.  It wasn’t much of a scream.  More of a whimper, actually.

“Don’t you understand?” I said.  “I’ve got a whole lot of love to give.  I’ve been saving it up.”

She screamed again.  An insane asylum scream.  I hummed some more.  Love me tender, love me long, take me to your heart.  For its there that I belong, and we’ll never part.

I backed her into a corner, and she kept right on screaming.  Nobody was listening.  The music inside the club was too loud.  Carefully, I unzipped the canvas bag.  I told Scarlett to look inside.  She didn’t want to.  I punched her in the solar plexus a few times.  She changed her mind.  When she saw Ponso’s head, she stopped screaming.  Her jaw went slack.  Her face went pale.

““I’m gonna get it preserved in formaldehyde,” I said.  “That way, when you get tired of looking at me, you can take his head off the mantle, press it against your bosom.  I’m not the jealous type.  Oh Scarlett, we’re gonna be happy together.”

But Scarlett didn’t think so.  She used her long red fingernails to claw away from my grip.  Then she was off, running down the alley like a wounded animal, her high heels busting, her skirt ripping at the seams.  I pulled out my sawed-off shotgun and aimed it at her lower back.  She’d almost reached the highway by the time I fired.  I missed, and she kept on running.  I fired again, but it was too late—-she’d disappeared like so many other childhood dreams.  

The rain had stopped falling, and the whole world was quiet.  I was tired.  I sat down in the alley and lit a cigarette. Then I pulled Ponso’s head from the duffel bag, and placed it in my lap.  For a good long while I sat there, just staring at his face.  Maybe, I decided, that’s why’d Scarlett had run off in such a fright. 

Ponso Aguello, the love of her life, wasn’t so pretty anymore. 

Copyright(c) 2006 by Jon Bassoff

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