Gun Chicks of Caracas

By Spider Moon

I don't need your anger or your hate. I don't need your rampant misogyny. I don't need any of that. None of us do. Female, is not synonymous, with quiet. I came into this world kicking and screaming I go out shooting and creaming.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.H. Dartos
• Release date: Jan 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370010653

Spider Moon

Christmas Island is an island of geographic isolation with a history of minimal human disturbance. Author Spider Moon aka Sian Poon has been living there since 2009. During his years on the Island he has faced unavoidable difficulties. His extensive knowledge of the Malay language and the customs of the Asian people have proved invaluable.

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Gun Chicks of Caracas

Spider Moon

This book is work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real locales is used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Marilyn Hagar

Copyright © 2017 by Spider Moon

Published by Spider Moon

at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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

All rights reserved.

*****

Dead Tired and Deceased to Boot

Every morning to maintain her strength he fed her a pale yellow egg and wiped the crumbs off her lips and dressed her in loose-fitting slacks and sweatshirt. On Thursdays he had errands to run. He didn't want to leave her, so he settled her on his back, and like a farmer with a sack of grain, hauled her into town. His attentions made her gurgle with delight. A mother loves her son with relentless absorption, and it is only fitting that a son returns that love with the loyalty of a soldier guarding the gates to an ammunition dump.

Her eyes were sightless. The pupils were clouded with cataracts, as if someone had smeared them with phlegm. In the morning, as she chewed her egg, a cicada buzzed in her throat. It was her death nudging up her esophagus, relentlessly as an insect up a flower stalk. He pried her teeth apart with a paint stick and beamed a light into the depths. Nothing was revealed to him, but he remained suspicious. She greeted these inspections with bubbly upwellings of saliva that spilled over her lips like honey.

When he carried her downtown he was followed by a retinue of scruffy mutts that slavered at his heels. People stared at the spectacle of a middle-aged man supporting on his back the indefinable weight of his decrepit mother. Little towns are renowned for the luxury of sheer gawking they permit their inhabitants, the license to stop and stare for impolite periods of time. In the bank he shuffled a few papers as if intending to make a deposit. You can't leave her here, a teller said, panic blanching his face.

She ain't dead, he retorted. She's sleeping, and besides, I need me some money.

All day, like a man with a load of potatoes, he plodded from one establishment to