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Candy Sweet-REVISED-Part 1 of 2 (language, violence, narcotics, prostitution) (1 Viewer)


Senior Member
[disc]WARNING: Contains violence, foul language, narcotics usage, prostitution. Disturbing.
Please do NOT read if you are under 17 or offended by these topics.

Here's Candy again - less offensive I hope. If not, it will be pulled again. I think this is about as mild as I can get it.

3246 words
Short Story - Part 1 of 2

One member (I think most of you know who I'm talking about) posted just to say he hated stories like this and the people who wrote them. Please don't do that. You've been warned in the disclaimer. Remember karma...



Everyone’s dead.

Candace “Candy” Cobrini walked through the loft in a daze, one brought about by an abundance of heroin delivered through her system via one of the veins in her left arm. She was no stranger to the needle, yet she still could not identify which vein was which. It did not matter much to her, just as long as the junk found its way to her brain. It always did.

The upstanding citizens who supplied her with the party favors were all on the ground now. One was propped against a wall, but the rest were prostrate. Six in all, all lying in various states of deathly repose. Surprisingly, there was not a great deal of blood. Too bad. They deserve to drown in their own fluids. She had been on a serious nod and could not recall ever hearing any pistol shots which, judging by the condition of one unfortunate’s head, had to be the cause of death. I ever meet the guys that did this, I’ll give ‘em a free one.

She went to one of them (Tommy, I think) that was leaning against the wall. Candy swiftly went through shirt and pants pockets; in one she found a little baggie containing a small amount of off-white powder. Great! she thought. She stood up from a crouch and looked down at the pathetic corpse. “Try to rape me, huh?” Candy kicked the skull with her heel and it caved inward like a pumpkin. Shocked, she looked at the damage she had just done. “God, what the fuck?” She thought heads were a little stronger than something a 130-pound woman could smash with a boot from her lady-like (but size 10) bare foot. Maybe the bullets that went through his skull softened it up. Then she remembered it wasn’t Tommy, but Tony. All you had to do to get a man in this neighborhood was to yell out “Hey Tony!” and a couple dozen heads would turn. What the fuck – Tony, Tommy, his head won’t be turning no more.

She went to the breakfast bar and dumped the powder on a page she tore from the phone book. Candy wetted a pinkie with her tongue and stuck the finger into the powder, then into her mouth. No, it wasn’t coke; it was H. Candy looked around the room and wondered who might have the fix-kit she needed. She tried to remember the cat who gave her the works last night.

It was someone with the phonetic “ee” at the end of his name. Ton-ee or Tom-ee or Paul-ee. Something like that. The names didn’t matter much right now, since no one could talk. She debated on the merits of snorting versus shooting. Shooting up was the way to go, but she felt like she was running out of time and just wanted to get the fuck out of there, fast. No time for either. After she was out then she could decide, but her mind was already set. It had to be a needle if she could find one; it had to be that rush.
Candy gathered up her clothes from their heap on the floor and got dressed hurriedly. She finished up by swiftly slipping on her cute pink high-heeled shoes and walking out the door. After a few steps she paused, then reluctantly returned to the front door. Going to the nearest body, one with an air-conditioned head, she very quickly rifled through the pockets while ignoring the face and found an OTF automatic knife. Not as good as a gun, but at least it was something; she had lost her razor somewhere along the line. A slide of the button forward made a deadly-looking piece of steel shoot from the haft with a noisy chick sound. She slid the button back and the blade retracted. Reaching into a back pocket, she retrieved a wallet and relieved it of its currency. She moved to the next corpse and this time found a gun, a Colt .380 Series IV. Candy knew her weapons.

Working the slide made a bullet pop out and a new one move into the chamber; she dropped the clip into her palm then picked up the ejected round and put it in the magazine. Wonder why he couldn’t get off a shot. The other dudes must’ve come in fast. She re-inserted the clip. Ready to rock. She then found some works (needle syringe and spoon all set) and another wallet. Candy shoved the money into her halter top and tucked the pistol inside her tight skirt. It showed like a hard-on. Fuck it. So they see the gun, maybe they don’t mess with me.

This time she ran out the door. Slowing once she hit the sidewalk, Candy strolled as casually as she could along the street, but there was nothing casual about her: almost six feet tall, taller in her solid-core high heels, washed-out red hair that was almost bubble-gum pink, long fingernails painted midnight blue, deep-purple eye shadow and lipstick, impressive breasts. She couldn’t even go to the deli without a proposition. And now it was 4:00 a.m. The hustlers on the street were looking. Her long fingers closed around the knife in the palm of her hand, almost hoping someone would fuck with her.

“Hey, baby, what you say?” someone said.

Baby, huh?
Candy pushed the button and showed him the steel. “Fuck off.” He receded quickly into the dark. Candy hated hustlers, more than she hated any other group of people. The irony somehow escaped her. She was tired of being pushed around by men, being abused, and just then a memory of her father and uncle flickered. Her anger building, she followed him into the shadows, groping for the weapon tucked in her skirt. She came up with the .380.

“Hey asshole – what time is it?” Candy growled.

“Who you callin’ asshole, bitch?”

“Guess what – it’s last call. That’s what time it is. That’s what fucking time it is.”

Candy fired the weapon three times.


At around 4:40 a detective from the Albuquerque PD was crouched next to the late and, most likely, unlamented Curtis Bellings, shot three times with a small-caliber pistol. Piece of shit probably got the proverbial just deserts. Oh, well. I get paid the same no matter who gets whacked. What do I fucking care?

Anyone know anything?” he asked in general to his audience of detectives, patrol officers and crime-scene personnel.

“Fuck no.” one of them said. “In this neighborhood?”


Candy awoke, or came to, at about three in the afternoon. Her head was reeling with the shit she had shot into her arm, feeling simultaneously like vomiting and defecating. She stumbled when she tried to get out of bed, and shimmied her way to a small refrigerator across the room. The motel, as usual, was a shitty place with a TV and fridge and not much more. There were some cans of Pepsi inside that she couldn’t remember acquiring. Neither could she remember checking into the room, but here she was, so she must have done it. Glancing about as she gulped the cola, she looked for signs that a man had been around. There were none; no condom wrappers, no forgotten man-items, no smell of after-shave or gasoline, no money left on the dresser. Candy was alone. Thank god.

She had a blurry memory of last night, fogged by the drugs that continually coursed through her bloodstream. Her life was nothing but a patchwork of fleeting memories and fiction. When she couldn’t connect the dots, which was often, she invented the missing links. An addict can create an entire history that might bear no semblance to reality, yet have verisimilitude. Almost all of Candy’s life was a lie.

Candy had suffered the physical abuse of her mother and father and survived. Candy had suffered sexual abuse at the hands of her father and uncle and survived. She had vowed to kill them all, especially her mother for not stopping it, not knowing, in her narcotic-soaked brain, that she already had. All three of them. Candy’s immediate family was all dead, the result of a three-day binge on heroin and meth she had years ago. A fatal combination; in this case, though, the addict was not the one who paid the price. A year ago, Candy tried to call her mother and couldn’t understand why the number was disconnected.

Candy hated her life, hated herself. Now she performed a ritual she had developed over the years: standing in front of a mirror naked, verbally criticized herself – her face, her body, her expression, everything. She had once held a knife to herself while staring at the reflection of her nude body. “I’m a fucking freak!” she had screamed at herself. “I’m a giraffe, I’m too tall and too ugly! I should just die!” She had then pulled the blade across her throat. When she had awakened (or came to) the next day, her neck was covered in dried blood; cleaning the wound, she saw she had a brand-new scar where the blade had sliced. Candy had begun wearing chokers that day; she had some very pretty ones that hid the damage well.

Candy was anything but ugly; she was an extremely beautiful woman who could have almost any man she wanted, provided she washed some of that paint off her face, quit the dusky rose hair dye, dressed like a lady and stopped the junkie lifestyle. Candy could not do that. She hated herself, the men who were attracted to her, and everyone else, for that matter.

Except Cindy. Whoever the hell that was.

Candy did not remember the incident, but she was once at a plaza in some small town in New Mexico, in a little park at the center of a roundabout. Candy had been badly stoned at the time, flying high on some good shit (it was funny how heroin actually seemed to give her some pep), bopping to Rod Stewart on her iPod when she danced her way near a family having a picnic.

The family had consisted of Mommy, Daddy, and a little girl about five years old. Candy was dressed in a short, tight leather skirt and a halter top three sizes too small; no socks, no underwear. She was wearing her FM shoes and was made up with heavy rouge, eye shadow, and lipstick. All mauve. Lightly tinted sunglasses, mauve as well. She also wore a deep purple choker. Rod Stewart blared though her Earbuds, “I’m so in Love With You” screaming into her mind.

“Hi, I like your hair!” the little girl cried out to Candy. “It’s pink like cotton candy!”

Candy turned down Rod and took off her sunglasses. She was wasted. No one there appeared to notice.

“Well, hi! I like yours, too, cutie!”

The girl was a doll. Her shoulder-length hair was platinum and crowned an adorable cherub’s face, reminding Candy of statuary depicting winged children. The parents gathered closer behind the girl, wary of strangers. Daddy was definitely giving her the eye. Candy, being the good little junkie she was, gave them a big smile that said I’m safe and managed to sound somewhat normal. “Hi, I’m Candy. You have a beautiful little girl. What’s her name?”

“I’m Cindy,” the young girl replied. “You’re a pretty lady. You gots cotton-candy hair and purple on your face! You dress really pretty. You’re really big, too, like a lady giant! What’d you say your name was again?”

“I’m Candy.”

Candy! Like chocolate and licorice! That’s so neat! Is that your real name?”

“Yes, sweetie, that’s my real name.”

“Oh wow, that is really great! I wish my name was Candy!”

Candy crouched down and put a long arm around Cindy. Cindy put both her arms around Candy and hugged her tightly. “You’re so pretty, and you smell so good,” she said softly. “Can you come home with me?”

Candy was sweating like a horse and did not feel the tears that came from her eyes. “No, sweetie, I can’t. But I can be your big sister if you want.”

“But I want a Candy at home. Why you crying, Candy-lady?” Cindy’s eyes were filling with tears as well.

“Because I’m a bad girl,” she whispered, inhaling the snot clogging her nostrils. Her eyes leaked like a cracked fishbowl. Sweat
drenched Candy’s pretty pink hair, making it itch.

“What did you do, Candy-lady? What? Why you bad?”

Candy gave her one more tight squeeze, then stood. She pursed her pretty lips. Ran long nails against her itchy scalp. Tears streaked purple lines down her cheeks. She looked at the parents, who also arose, then dug past the condoms in her small purse and found a pen and a liquor store receipt. Candy wrote out a number.

“Please call me if you ever need a babysitter or want to just have a picnic. I’d really like to spend time with your daughter if you approve.”

“Are you okay?” Daddy asked”

“Hell, no.”

The father took the slip of paper from Candy tremulously. She tried to smile and waved at Cindy, then turned and walked away from the plaza, tears pouring from her pretty eyes. “’Bye Candy-lady!” Cindy shouted, waving energetically; within an hour Candy had shot enough heroin to tranquilize a herd of rhinoceros. Little Cindy was effectively chased from her diseased brain.


Candy stumbled to the nearest liquor store. Her brain was reeling from the heroin.

“I can’t sell anything to you,” the clerk told her.

“What? Why not? I’m not fucking drunk!”

“You look pretty wasted to me.”

Candy reached into her purse. Her mind was completely scrambled. Pulled out the .380. Fired two shots into the clerk. The explosions were minor but huge; Candy screamed after the second one.

Candy went around the counter in a daze and helped herself to a fifth of Importer’s vodka. On her way out, she punched buttons on the cash register with a knuckle until it opened and she cleaned it of all its cash. She glanced down at the dead clerk, feeling no emotion, just curiosity. Like at the massacre, there was a surprisingly little amount of blood. Just to make sure, she fired another shot into his head, yelping as she did it. This time there was a little more blood, but since his heart wasn’t pumping it just oozed out of his skull. Who the fuck is Cindy? she thought as she left. Her ear-pods blared. Wash away my troubles, wash away my pain. We’re at the reign of Shambala…

Her next stop was Wal-Mart, where she purchased some .380 ammunition under the name of “Jennifer Dawson.” She had no idea where she got that passport. The Jennifer babe in the photo did look like Candy would look minus the makeup. The Jennifer babe in the photo was also at the bottom of an abandoned lead mine in Hobbs, New Mexico, her throat cut. Candy filled up the pistol’s clip and dumped another dozen rounds into her purse.

I can tell my sister by the flowers in her eyes… I’m on the road to Shambala…

Sometime around 3:30 a.m. the “El Camino,” an all-night diner, was robbed of all the cash in the till and four people were shot to death, the only four that were out front – two employees and two customers. There were no witnesses. The bodies were discovered by kitchen personnel at about 3:15; no one in the cooking area had seen or heard a thing.


Candy was stoned out of her mind the following afternoon, the iPod’s Earbuds jammed in place, blaring Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Truck Driving Man.” She was dancing down the sidewalk, ignoring the stares. She was loopy but for a heroin addict had a lot of energy.

“Well there’s smoke from the stacks a-blowin’… and he don’t care where he’s goin’…”
Candy sang along. The irony of listening to a band that was pretty much wiped out in a plane crash escaped her. She was bopping in place at the corner, waiting for the light to change. “Hi, I’m Candy. I’m sweet!” she crowed at people nearby, cackling wildly before turning Skynyrd to full volume. About two hours ago she had smashed in a vehicle’s window at a park with steel pipe and removed a purse filled with money. Why would anyone leave a purse in a car? Stupid. She spent the money immediately on a fix from her favorite supplier ensconced permanently in a bar near the park.

I bet he’s got a lot of shit on him at any given time…

Who the FUCK is Cindy??? This is important…

She wracked her chemical-laden mind over that. She could not remember ever meeting anyone named Cindy. The song changed. Now it was “The Reflex” by Duran Duran.

“Oh fuck, I love this song!” she screeched happily. She had a weird mix of music on her machine. There was Skynyrd and Duran Duran and Led Zeppelin and Juice Newton and Johnny Cash, all in one big mess of sound.

She reeled a junkie’s tilt at the stop light. Then she remembered Cindy.

That little girl.

She remembered.

That little sweetie in that plaza. Liked my hair, my makeup, my name. Cried when I did. Said my face was purple. Called me ‘Candy-lady.’ Said my hair looked like cotton candy. Said my name was like chocolate and licorice. Wanted me to come home with her. Hugged me and said I smelled good. Like I ever smell good any more. I smell like a fucking toilet .I haven’t smelled good for twelve years.

Candy fled to the hotel room


The sun shot beams of light through the slats at a low angle, stinging Candy’s eyes as she raised the lids a little. She immediately closed them again and turned her head in the opposite direction. Late afternoon already. If I wouldn’ta forgot to close the blinds all the way I woulda slept ‘til midnight. A little moan lowed from her slack mouth. She could taste vodka and, more subtly, a hint of citrus, like bad cider. On occasion Candy had an odd aftertaste from the heroin; sometimes it was lemony, sometimes bitter, sometimes like metal or pond water. “Ugh,” she groaned, opening her eyes slowly and rolling toward the edge of the bed. In the bathroom she scrubbed her teeth furiously, trying to scour away the awfulness in her mouth.

While rinsing out the toothbrush, she stared at herself in the mirror. Mirrors were her enemy. She saw her ugliness, saw the lines of a dismal life carved into her face, a lifetime of agony darkening her blue eyes, yellowing the whites and shooting them with blood. Maybe it’s just the H, or the booze. Maybe it’s everything. Who the fuck knows? Seeing an ugly Candy made her turn from the glass. The television needed to be running – anything to get her mind off this miserable room and her miserable existence. Tonight she needed to go out and earn some more money. First, though, the cosmetics had to be applied and her hair had to be done; for that she would need to face the mirror again and she couldn’t bear to do that right now. The bed was a comfort; she always felt safe buried under the covers of a warm bed behind a locked door. Alone, of course

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