Escape From Pink Doom

By Mae Winn

“What, cuz? Are you poking fun at me for finally losing weight?” Andy asks coyly, rubbing the webbing of his green octopus body under the jar containing his head with 4 out of his 8 tentacles. The underside of each tentacle covered in writhing, pink suction cups.

“Um,” I say to Andy, considering him with my head to one side...

Gina’s daily life certainly has changed. Gina is a nubile tattoo artist with a rich dream life, and an even more fantastic waking life, swimming in the stream of a counter-culture existence when a mysterious disaster descends upon humanity.

Escape From Pink Doom is a science fiction love story adventure, and a testament to the power of friendship and true love to prevail over all adversity. If any of us will ever be caught up in a real-life zombie apocalypse, we should all be so lucky to fare as well as Gina (fingers crossed).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mae Winn
• Release date: Mar 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310834455

Mae Winn

Mae Winn is a fledgling author who may have spent half of her life in and around tattoo shops, and is currently a strange, heavily-tattooed housewife AT LARGE. She has two children that she knows of (wink, wink), and prays daily for some marginally unbalanced person to break into her house, and clean it for her so she can spend more time crafting stories. She is fully engaged in the practice of growing children with love, and spends a lot of time talking to her husband, children, friends, and pets. In her quiet moments, she enjoys daydreaming, and pondering who will lead the rebellion against our eventual robot overlords. Escape From Pink Doom is her first novel.

Book preview

Escape From Pink Doom

By Mae Winn

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Escape From Pink Doom

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Published by Mae Winn at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 Mae Winn

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Dedications:

Special thanks to Lynn Good, for cover art photography and photo editing.

This book is dedicated to:

Lovey: You are my hot, Italian hero. Thank you for making this possible.

My children: I live for you.

Julia: My bestie and sister. Thank you for all your support, encouragement, feedback, and inspiration.

Rose: Whose generous heart gives shelter to all manner of unfortunate creatures.

Hugs to Aunt Gloria!

Jesus: Thank you for having a sense of humor.

A hearty thank you to the visiting muses. If you enjoy this story, then please honor them with dark chocolate, loud music, and hearty laughter. If you find this story objectionable, then go shake your fist at the sky and complain to them. I just wrote it down.

--Mae Winn

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Table of Contents

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Chapter One: Tattoo Life

Chapter Two: Party Hardy

Chapter Three: The Bitch and The Ass

Chapter Four: Disco Sushi

Chapter Five: Moon Void

Chapter Six: Diarrhea Weapon

Chapter Seven: Bad Brian

Chapter Eight: Something is Clearly Wrong

Chapter Nine: Skeezer and the Mole People

Chapter Ten: Mrs. Kitty

Chapter Eleven: Fancy Picnic

Chapter Twelve: Safe in Space

Chapter Thirteen: The Garden

Chapter Fourteen: Love Wins

About The Author:

Connect with me: MaeWinn.wordpress.com

My Author Profile at Smashwords.com

http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/Mae4WinnMe

Find me on Goodreads.com:

http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25134459-escape-from-pink-doom?from_search=true

Follow me on Twitter@mae_winn

Mae Winn on Facebook

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Chapter One: Tattoo Life

‘Why do I have so many friggin’ keys?’ I wonder as I search for the padlock and deadbolt keys for the shop door on my key ring.

A dripping noise catches my attention. I look up into the bright afternoon sky to see if the air conditioner in Rich’s window above the shop is dripping.

The mottled red brick building above is silent. There is no sputtering hum from the air conditioner in the second story window above.

Something whizzes by my head and splats onto the pavement. Maroon spots dot the sidewalk by the front door. Bending down to unlock the first padlock on the roll-down gate, three more spots whistle by and splatter in quick succession.

Ugh, gooey, I say out loud, considering the dots. Another, bigger blob falls to the pavement.

I brush my blonde curls away from my face and squint up into the tree overhead. I scream and fall backwards, catching myself on the roll-down gate.

A limp body is lying in the scaffolding of the tree branches, dripping blood through ripped clothing.

My heart beats thunderously in my ears while my mind scrambles to make sense out of what I see. The body above is slim and pale. I see a worn, gray skateboarding shoe twitching, and the leg in dark green shorts is hairless and child-like. The body is wearing a Death in June T-shirt. Moving my head from side to side, I recognize this heap in the tree limbs.

Ha, ha. Good one, Sal, I call out in a voice that is shaky and plainly annoyed; hands on my hips. You got blood all over the fucking sidewalk. You need to clean this shit up, man. Don’t be scaring away my customers, now.

The bleeding lump in the tree branches stirs. Okay, I will, says Sal meekly. Sorry for the mess, Gina.

I glance up and around for any more unexpected surprises lying in wait as I unlock the other padlock and deadbolt in the shop door. The sky is blue and clear except for a tiny, sparkly, pink cloud.

I marvel at the shiny pinkness of the cloud for a moment. It looks like a cloud that escaped from sunrise and ran away to add its color to the afternoon.

My legs still weak from seeing Sal in the tree, I lock the padlocks back onto the rolled-up security gate and slip into the shop.

Easing into the cool wave of air conditioning, I lock the door behind me. It’s already 12:45pm; time to mop the floors.

It’s not officially part of my job to mop the store, but cleaning duties seem to naturally fall on me in this testosterone-infused, male-dominated workplace. I have not stepped forward and thrown elbows to take over the cleaning chores, but the males around me certainly took a giant step backwards, leaving me to pick up the bulk of the work by default.

As aggravating and unjust as this is, I don’t want to work in a filthy environment. Also, customers behave better if the shop is clean. I turn on the stereo and fill up the mop bucket in the scrub sink. The smell of pine fills the air.

Yo, what up! comes a voice from the waiting room.

Morning, Andy, I call to him over the music. Yo, man. You need to tell your boy to stop faking his death all the time over here. It’s freaking me out.

Andy cackles hysterically like an old woman. C’mon, have a sense of humor, says Andy. That was Sal’s best yet—you have to give him that.

I stop mopping and point a steely three-second stare at Andy. Andy is wearing a shiny shirt that is too tight for his build with enormous airplane collars, new black and red skate shoes, and long jean shorts with frayed edges and a chain wallet.

What? Don’t get your panties in a twist, says Andy, twitching with laughter. He’s cleaning it up right now. Don’t worry, that stage blood comes right up, says Andy, putting fresh trash liners in the garbage cans.

What is wrong with that kid? I ask Andy.

Who, Sal? Sal’s great, says Andy. You need to lighten up. He’s probably just crushing on you and trying to get your attention, cuz.

Greeeaaat. Suicide Sal is crushing on me. Not that I’m interested, but hasn’t he ever heard of making conversation or buying flowers or something? I finish aggressively mopping the black and white checkered linoleum floor.

That’s just Sal. He has his own way, says Andy gently with feigned sensitivity.

Well, why doesn’t he go to school for special effects makeup or something? He should do something productive with his life besides scare the pants off of the people he knows, and party at Mira and Dud’s, I say.

Agreed, cuz, Andy says. Check out my new sateen shirt. Are my headlights on?

I look up before I catch myself to see the clear outline of Andy’s pierced nipples through his latest thrift store find. I avert my gaze too late.

Oh, come on, man. I’m already having a rough morning—I can’t un-see that. I cover my eyes and rub them as if in pain.

So sexy it’s hard to deal with, I know, says Andy, rubbing his hands over his round belly and man-boobs.

I grab a spray bottle of dilute tincture of green soap and narrow the stream on the sprayer.

Just wait until I pierce them the other way, Andy says, pointing to his nipples. I’ll be happy to see everyone, all the time.

I spray Andy with a stream of soap.

Hey! Andy yelps and jumps out of the way. Andy is surprisingly agile and quick for an overweight person. It’s too early in the day for stains on this shirt, he says, scowling at me and walking over to unlock the front door. He turns on the green neon sign in the window that from inside the shop spells, ‘OOTTAT’.

I’m going to grow one of those 70’s porn star moustaches, too, says Andy.

What the fuck is this? I say looking at a mess of dirty needles, tubes, and ink on a soiled, blue lap cloth on my stainless steel work station tray.

The perimeter of the tray is littered with candy bar wrappers, empty soda cans, and beer cans; some of which have obviously been used as ashtrays. My glass jars of ink caps, tongue depressors, and disposable razors are still lined up neatly at the back of the green faux marble countertop. My spray bottle of green soap is carefully wrapped in plastic wrap and blue barrier film, and covered in smears of tattoo ink.

It’s like one of those giant, bushy moustaches that might have a bit of a handlebar aspect to it, Andy says, walking over and gesturing to his upper lip.

Not the moustache, I say patting Andy on the shoulder. And you’ll never grow one of those by the way, I say, careful to keep my eyes above Andy’s neck. Andy could at best grow 5 or 6 scraggly hairs on his smooth chin.

Did Rich use my station and leave me this big mess?

Who else, says Andy. He was probably doing tattoos after hours on Butterface.

If he’s always tattooing her, then why don’t I ever see any work on her? I ask. She’s always prancing around in Daisy Dukes and tube tops, and all I ever see is that tiny rose on her shoulder.

I think they’re all, you know—downstairs, says Andy winking and gesturing below the waist and nodding his head knowingly.

Well, that would explain why my chair is elevated and reclined like this, I say. I grab my trash can and see a shiny condom wrapper in it.

Oh my gooey God, I’m gonna hurl, I say. Andy starts doing his bam-chicka-wow-wow 70’s porn background music impression.

I double glove my hands and spray my barber chair from top to bottom with Madacide, and unglove with extra caution; making sure that no fluids can jump across to my skin.

Oh, man. Where are my friggin’ tools? I say, searching for my metal file and screwdrivers.

That sucks, man, says Andy. I would like, totally curse him out for that.

I glove up again and take the used needles to the sharps container. No, you wouldn’t. He yells at you all the time and you never say anything back. I look over at Andy and inadvertently gaze at his nipples. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. Ugh, you got me.

Andy smiles at me and strikes a 1950’s pin-up model pose, his shirt riding up over his doughy, hairless belly as he lifts his arms over his head. I’m irresistible, I know.

You’re killing me, dude, I say shaking my head. You look like an overstuffed sausage in that shiny shirt.

The jingle bells hanging from the shop door by yellow yarn rattle and Andy and I peek down the hallway at the entrance. It’s Sal. He has cleaned up from his latest faked demise, and is poking his head through the door with a raised arm.

Andy gives a nod and a salute. Later, cuz, says Andy.

Laters, says Sal, weakly. I just glare and slowly shake my head as pasty, gaunt Sal shuffles away down the block.

There is the muffled sound of a man and woman angrily yelling upstairs, punctuated by bumps and thumps. An especially hard thump knocks the clock off the wall. The face of the round clock sports a picture of a tattoo machine and a banner that reads, Tattoo Time in an old-timey tattoo font. It falls to the floor with a clatter and one of the batteries pops out of the back.

Andy and I look up at the ceiling and then at each other. Here we go, I say as I retrieve the clock and put it back on the wall.

Lovers loving love, says Andy, gesturing to the second floor with his eyes.

I know, right? I say with a sneer. Great, I guess Butterface is around.

Where are my freaking’ tools? I raise my hands and my voice in frustration. I don’t mind people using my station and stuff as long as they ask me first and don’t make off with my tools… damn it.

He’s a dick, cuz, says Andy. Don’t think too hard about it.

Word, I say.

The bumping and thumping sounds upstairs escalate, and are now punctuated by what could be mating noises at a mutant animal farm. Andy turns up the volume on the stereo to cover the din.

This is the worst aspect of my job. Otherwise, Rich is a fairly chill boss. He makes the occasional mess in my station, but for the most part he gives me free reign to work as I see fit.

Rich apprenticed me in a fair and honest way. He wasn’t a creep who tried to get into my pants. He didn’t make me dig any giant holes in his yard for a swimming pool with a spoon, or give me a tiny gun and tell me to defend a biker clubhouse in the middle of the woods right before it was due to be filled with gun-toting bikers (all with much bigger guns than mine). He has never smacked me in the back of the head and taken the tattoo machine out of my hand while I was working, or threatened to break my hands and knees with a hammer. I had it easy with Rich compared to a lot of other tattooers I knew.

Well, I guess there was that one time when he left on vacation and forgot to give me the code to the security system. Of course, I set the alarm off when I unlocked the shop. As I stood there desperately mashing buttons; trying to figure out the security code, the police arrived and held me at gunpoint, but that was an honest mistake. Rich had never done anything like that to me on purpose.

He was also fair. I paid Rich a token amount for the apprenticeship, and the rest he let me work off. He didn’t string me along for years cleaning tubes and toilets with the promise of tattooing someday. He got me up and working in good time.

Rich taught me how to make ink, and took me to hotels for the weekend for ink-making marathons (so we didn’t have to deal with streaks of powder pigment forever at the shop or at his place—you wipe one of those tiny dots of powder pigment when it lands on a wall or the floor and it becomes a crazy, long streak of color for months after you’ve made ink). I helped him carry the glass blenders, glycerin, pigment, distilled water, and vodka up to the hotel room.

For the greens and blues we used a rock tumbler to break up the pigment further before we mixed it up. We cooked gray wash Pelican with rosewater on a hot plate in stainless steel pots, and slowly cooked down black Talens in a double boiler for tribal work.

Rich was gentlemanly with me, even in the hotel room. He mostly just watched sports on TV after we were done. He drank bottles of beer stuffed with lime slices, and ate candy bars until he passed out and snored loudly on his bed. He never touched me unless he ruffled my hair like a friendly uncle.

Rich taught me to make needles even though we usually just bought them. I knew how to spore test the autoclaves and how to service the big one to get the mineral gunk out of the inside. He showed me around the chemiclave, too. We almost never used the chemiclave unless we made old-school flat needle groupings with carbon-plated steel pins.

Rich had been impressed with my illustration portfolio and saw my strengths from the start. He got me up and tattooing within six months of starting my apprenticeship. Now, he mostly lets me run the shop by myself.

The catch to this sweet deal is that I have to put up with Rich’s crazy girlfriend, Ronda, and their embarrassingly loud, mixed martial arts sex romps. Rich lives above the shop, so this happens on a fairly regular basis. Their hot-tempered, over-sexed, contemptuous relationship was both a mystery and an aggravation.

To be fair, they did seem to dial it back a bit after that time when they knocked the power out and I was stuck in the middle of a tattoo with no electricity. Something about wires, and pennies, and whatever else I didn’t want to know. Rich drew the line at interfering with the flow of money, so thankfully that particular scenario never happened again.

Rich’s girlfriend Ronda has a short, curvy, fit body, and a horsey face with severe cystic acne. This is the origin of our nickname of, ‘Butterface’ for her. I’m pin-straight, but I must admit that Ronda has a smoking hot body (and a perfect face for radio). Also, her chronic acne looks greasy enough to butter toast.

Ronda has been a fixture around the shop for the four years I have been around, and any attempts to say hello to her have failed miserably. She mostly just glowers at me in a jealous way and slithers away whenever our paths cross.

Rich’s tendency to share too much information doesn’t make the situation less uncomfortable, either. Even when I was vamping it up fashion-wise, Rich treated me like one of the guys. He has had a tendency to show Andy and I things before we knew what we were seeing.

The picture on Rich’s phone of the wet bed sheets from Butterface’s female ejaculate is firmly etched in my brain, like a tattoo for a former lover I’d rather forget. The subsequent debate between Andy and Rich regarding whether female ejaculate is a lot of lube or actually just urine didn’t make it easier to stomach, either.

Between the barrage of inappropriate sexual over-sharing and the references Rich made to putting each lip of Ronda’s reportedly unusually large labia majora in each of his cheeks as if he were a chipmunk storing nuts for winter, it was hard to look at Butterface and make small talk.

To say the occasional interaction with her is awkward is putting it very mildly.

As loud as the music in the shop is, I can still hear the jingle bells on the front door chime. I peek into the waiting area, and see a haggard looking middle-aged woman and a teenager, presumably her daughter, dressed in a half-shirt and tight sweatpants.

Are you here for a piercing? I ask the woman.

The woman can’t hear me over the blaring music. What? she mouths at me.

I walk closer and yell slowly so the woman can read my lips. Are you here for a piercing?

Yes, for her, she says, nodding toward the teenager. Can you turn the music down?

I scoot over to the stereo and turn the volume down.

Andy! I yell to the back of the shop. Piercing!

Fill out this form here, I say, sliding the clipboard on the showcase counter to the woman. Do you both have ID?

Yes, says the woman. The teenager is trying hard to look coolly disaffected, but is fidgeting in a way that clearly shows her excitement.

The ceiling rattles with a thump. Half-screams, half-moans, and suspiciously rhythmic thumping sounds project from the ceiling like a naughty siren. There is the vibrating of something that sounds like a belt sander followed by an ecstatic yelp and the rattle of heavy chains. The woman now looks at me in shock. I smile at her and turn the volume of the stereo back up. The woman nods at me as if she now understands why the music was previously so loud, and is relieved that I turned the volume up again.

Mouth agape, the woman looks over at the teenager who is chewing gum and texting on her phone, blissfully oblivious.

Andy magically puts on a professional persona that instills confidence at the drop of a hat, no matter what silly outfit he’s wearing. He escorts the guardian and minor back through the shop to his booth.

Gloving up, I pick up the dirty tubes and bring them to the scrub room and drop them into the ultrasonic cleaner. I expertly pull my hand back to avoid backsplash when I drop the tubes into the water-filled basket with a plop.

I’m not the fucking maid, dude, I sing under my breath as I spray down my counter and stainless steel tray with Madacide. The disinfectant smell bites my nose.

There is some eternal magic in the mingling aromas of cleaning fluids and green soap in the crisp, air conditioned air of a tattoo shop. It smells fresh, clean, and exciting all at the same time. It’s like the smell of an ice cream shop for adults with a variety of sex and drug options for toppings instead of m and m’s and chopped nuts.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the mother of the young lady who is getting a navel piercing from Andy standing in observation at the edge of his booth.

Okay, take in a deep breath, I hear Andy say between the beats of the music.

As I’m about to spray down my work station and chair with rubbing alcohol, I see the young lady’s mother fall straight backward like a felled tree. She hits the ground with a thud that I feel under my feet more than I hear, on account of the unreasonably loud music.

Shit! Andy, the mother fell out! I yell more to myself than Andy.

I hastily unglove and rush over to the fallen woman with a folded paper towel sprayed with rubbing alcohol.

Well, this is a new one, I mouth to Andy. Poor lady hit the ground like a ton of bricks. Andy and I hold up the woman’s trunk and I put the folded paper towel to the back of her neck. Her eyes are rolling in her head and twitching, but not open. Her skin is cool and clammy, and she is definitely green around the gills.

The too-cool-for-school teenager is definitely worried as she holds her mother’s hand. She has a piercing needle in her navel with the sharp, business end stuck into a beige cork. There are still dots of purple skin marker on her stomach around her belly button. The girl is kneeling to keep the bottom of the piercing needle from poking her lower stomach.

Here, Andy says, cracking a capsule of smelling salts and putting it under the woman’s nose while I hold her up. Andy grabs the remote from Rich’s office, and turns down the volume on the stereo. Thankfully, the sex-fighting upstairs seems to have ceased for now.

Here she comes, I say as the woman comes to.

Goodness, that shit will wake the dead, I say, coughing into my shoulder, away from the smelling salts. That smells like a punch in the face.

What happened? the woman asks.

You passed out. How are you feeling? asks Andy.

I don’t know—lightheaded? says the woman in a groggy voice, looking confused. My head kind of hurts.

You hit the ground pretty hard, I say.

Let’s get you up on the chair, I say. Andy and I help the woman up and onto the chair. Put your head between your legs like you’re in the crash position. This will get some blood back up to your head. I dash to the mini-fridge in Rich’s office and grab a small bottle of orange juice.

I give a lingering backward glance around Rich’s office. ‘Not leaving a filthy mess in your own space, I see,’ I think to myself. Being treated like everyone’s maid really does get old, sometimes.

I bring the woman some juice, elevate her feet on another chair, and guard her while Andy completes the follow-through with her daughter’s navel jewelry.

The phone rings. Tattoo shop, I answer with one hand still holding the woman on the chair. It’s one of my favorite regulars, Greg. He wants to come in for a black and gray portrait with some Celtic knotwork at 3 o’clock.

Andy sends the woman’s daughter to the corner bodega to get a candy bar for her mother. After the woman eats and recovers, the color returns to her face. Andy gives the daughter some care instructions for her new piercing and they leave; the daughter with her arm around her mom.

"I have never seen that before," I say to Andy.

Me, either, says Andy. She hit the ground like a missile.

I know, right? I say, cleaning fingerprints off of the laminated flash sheets in the flash rack with window cleaner, and straightening up the portfolio books on the lighted showcase.

A man walking by the plate glass front shop window looks in my direction and hesitates. I turn in his direction, and he hurries past. He is a handsome, business casual blur and the sunlight shimmers on his dark, glossy hair.

You hungry? Andy asks as I follow the man down the block with my eyes.

Yeah, I say. What are you thinking of getting?

"I was thinking Wing