TotW 179: Classy Girls - SUBMISSIONS

[Shankbot de Bodemloze]

Creative Workshop Competitions

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Classy Girls



5 Keywords:
Flowers
Bar
Care
Dead
Parade

Rules and awards

5 keywords that have to be used in the story (please place these words in bold so they can easily be seen by the moderators)
- Word limitation of minimum 200 but maximum 500 words INCLUDING all titles, footnotes or any other part deemed part of the submission, in a spoiler
- Deadline is the following Sunday
- Minimum 3 submissions to start the competition
- If you are a contestant you are honour bound to not read other contestants' writings until you have submitted yours.

Please note that all rules including word count and key words will be strictly enforced. Rule breakers will be disqualified from the vote.
When using the keywords you may change nouns into plurals and the tenses of verbs only.

Check your WORD COUNT here.

Advertising

Contestants are not allowed to do direct advertisement of there story or asking for votes.

Example

Please vote for my story in ToTW.

Please vote for your favourite story. (allowed)

Awards

Each winning story will receive 1 point, if you compete in the other Writers' Study competitions this point will be combined with the ones you have won already won.

6 points - bronze medal
12 points - silver medal
24 points - golden medal

[Dude with the Food]

Reserved.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Worse places to be in Rio. I’ve seen the slums, and what happens to the non-locals there – not pretty. This carnival’s alright though, plenty of everything to see. These Brazilians seem to care a lot about their parades, much more than I ever could. It’s lucky that’s not why I’m here, no way. Here on an ‘errand’ you might call it. Emphasis is on might there. You might also call it illegal or trouble-making but that’s up to you. For me, it is a job and I take pride in that opinion. I job caused by petty squabbles of classy girls but a job all the same. The target will arrive soon.

I can afford a quick drink in this local. This whole Latin type of bar can’t compete with the good ol’ pubs back home but the drinks still give a good kick. Some of these are probably worse than some of the ‘medicines’ I use. Can’t be much in it. First time in Buenos Aires I blinded myself in a place like this, headache wouldn’t leave for three weeks. Still managed the shot though, never missed yet. Ever.
Some people are born to think. Others - to do.
I was born to kill.
Ever since my father died in a terrorist attack, I wanted to fight. My own war, not the governments, against those who wronged me. Until I found out I was good – and people pay well for that standard of result. Now I have nice thing going, get to travel the world, see the sights and I’m nothing but a tourist. Nobody suspects me. I’m everywhere, too many alibis. Can never be too sure. Also helps that I never kill anyone I’ve ever met or have anything to do with. Anybody like that I wanted dead are dead. It’s easier that way.

All I need to do here is just plant a package under a float. The hardest part will be getting away. Normally, I’d be several blocks away behind a focused lens but that would be inconsiderate to all the people who turned out for this carnival. No, I can just create a miniature explosion – not enough to injure people but enough to cause a little damage to the van. After that, everything falls into place. The victim leaves the float.
She proceeds to fuss before exiting down an alley to meet here sister in another part of the city.
I step behind a little schoolboy knife work will be enough.
Could do this in my sleep if I knew the city. And if I wasn’t here. Rio’s hardly notorious for being completely tourist friendly. Especially during the festivities. Here it comes, a giant peacock with flaming dancers on top. Target has been seen. What has been seen, cannot be unseen.

[Schrödinger]

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The Care Bear Dead Parade crawled past the Bar.
Flowers didn't care for the bears but paraded anyway.
Flowers cared for classy girls but hated to walk so far.
Flowers walked this parade for the girls at the end of the day.

Flowers was a man of simple pleasures.
Flowers wrote love songs for girls.
Flowers did nothing by half measures.
Flowers really liked classy girls.

He liked the girls with bottle-blonde hair.
He liked the girls with hair black like night.
He liked the girls who'd do it for a dare.
He liked the girls who saw him as a fight.

The Care Bear Dead Parade turned at the corner.
Among them was not a single true mourner.
Know now the truth of the Care Bear Dead Parade.
Every man their had simple lust for a maid.

Flowers particularly wanted a raven-haired one.
Flowers strode with a strut in his step.
Flowers knew the flower of his youth had gone.
Flowers knew old age upon him crept.

The Care Bear Dead Parade had begun in '69.
Men in their twenties had taken to the streets.
Their hearts and soul they had put on the line.
And afterwards had drunk and had boasted of feats.

The Care Bear Dead Parade was such a sham.
Flowers knew it and he knew the girls knew it.
But every year he did it in search of a madam.
The falseness grew his grin made his teeth grit.
But Flowers marched for his life was a piece of...

[Confederate Jeb]

WC: 500 WOOT WOOT

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Down the street goes a parade of mistakes. Flowers lay gently on caskets bearing the flag of the each content's origin. People line the sidewalks; wives weeping aloud, mothers and fathers crying softly, children unsure of the world's pains. I stand on the second story balcony of the Tipsy Waitress Bar, a cheap but good little hole in the wall, watching the dead pass me by. I don't mean that in a profound way either. The spirits of the deceased soldiers sit on top of the caskets, invisible to all but myself, looking dispirited (pardon the pun) and forlorn. The dead really do have a terrible lot. Growing tired of the melancholy scene, I retreat inside to grab the latest concoction of the young bartender.

"I feel so sorry for those families out there. I remember losing my father when I was young. He served in the Vietnam War." The happy face of the girl is clearly a facade; she knows that pain. She's even feeling it right now. Why can't I relate? Why don't I care?

"It is truly tragedy in motion." I reply sullenly, putting a few dollars onto the counter to pay for the pumpkin spice whiskey...cocktail...thing. I must want to join the soldiers in the caskets, but I perform my duty and hold down the abomination she called a drink. It wasn't that I enjoyed her company, though I suppose her presence was the closest I ever came to feeling happy. Her miserable talent at creating new ales was only matched by her burning devotion to try again and again. I think I admire that, or whatever my version of admiration is.

Out of the corner of my eye I spy Robert McClain walking up the stairs, his heart heavy and his body in need of alcohol. Since it is a Tuesday, I am the one to start our conversation of the day.

"Afternoon Bob."

"Afternoon. Sweetie, mind giving me the heavy stuff? Today hasn't been working out in my favor." The bartender nods understandingly, and goes to fetch Robert's order.

"The job search not as fateful as you had hoped?"

"Oh can your talk of fate. I found a job last week, didn't I tell you?"

"Might have, my memory hasn't been so good as of late."

"Too busy watching ghosts and contemplating the meaning of death to remember the words being said to you."

"You know me too well."

"Go die."

"I'd try, but death doesn't seem to like me."

"Nor does life, considering your emotionless soul you husk of a body carries around."

"Duly noted." I pause to let Robert effortlessly drain the drink just presented before him. "Listen, something's stirring up the spirits in the graveyard off Avett Road. You up for an excursion tonight?"

Robert's smiles at the thought of "killing" ghosts. "Seems like a night well spent. Try to contain your excitement."

"You know I don't have emotions Bob." I say with a smirk. "But maybe some day."

[Agent Miles]

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

A patch of beautiful spring flowers were crushed beneath a spit-shined boot as Sergeant Bambi Boinker exited the attack helicopter. She was determined to own this LZ the same way she had owned every bar where she had pole danced. A picture of Bambi's group of strippers, the "Classy Girls", was in her rucksack. With precise care she positioned her machinegun team. Motioning with her arm, she yelled over the whine of the rotors, "Down that road is your final protective fire line. Whatever comes that way, ends up dead. Got it?" The men gave the thumbs up sign and she moved to the next team.

Private Horn whistled as Bambi approached and he asked with his typical sarcasm, "Sarge, will you marry me?"

Jets flew over as Sergeant Boinker quickly instructed Horn in the detailed process he should follow to mate with himself and she added, "I don't give a crap if you were a Captain before the General caught you with his daughter. Your tail is mine now, Private. You give me any more lip and I'll bust yours. Now move out, you're point man."

Bambi checked the other soldiers, but couldn't help thinking about Horn. His kind were nothing but trouble. It's just that he gave her an itch that she couldn't quite scratch. She glanced at Horn's lean physique one more time and smiled. On the next R&R, she had a celebration planned for him that wouldn't involve a parade.