J.R. Pfeiffer

Bonnie and Clyde of the Hawthorne Hotel

The park grass folded with moister and pressed by four bricks of snow. Clyde looked like the park’s frozen statue on a green bench. He store at warm yellow windows of the Hawthorne Hotel. He salivated to eat them like blocks of warm cheese. And his growling stomach tilted the heads of curious crows. He accepted his numb limbs as one would an unhinged heartbeat. You just let the seconds sting your body’s vulnerabilities. He replayed in his mind, several Christmases back; sitting Indian style on a crimson hearth rug at his father’s Victorian house. Having a stomach filled with turkey, mashed potatoes, and red wine. His father landed; suffocating the sofa cushions with his beer belly; than clicked on a N.Y. Giant’s receiver dancing in a white end zone. His body drafted air thick in raw garlic, Merlot, and Old Spice aftershave.

“Dad can you see me?” Clyde said. He panned the black theater of the universe as it trickled snow upon his eyelids. A gust of New England waved the branches and gave the charcoal sky, umber veins. A young lady—blonde, bundled in a swollen pink, walked close. Her irises bounced around blue as the surface of the north Atlantic. She looked at him three times and crunched the fresh snow. “Do you have any food?” she said.

“I’m starving sweetheart,” he said. Clyde stroked the blood-stained knife case that strangled his tube sock. Her face’s beauty stretched his cock’s muscles.

“May I sit?” she said.


“I’m Bonnie,” she said.

“Pretty,” he said.

The cold green planks stung her tailbone parts not cushioned by fat. She listened to the orchestra of hunger playing in Clyde. Snow trickled like confetti on their tongues as they both squinted towards the empty park. Their aligned heads panned across the untouched blanket of snow.

“How can we eat?” she said. “I had a job walking dogs until a stray dog attacked them. News traveled and I was out of work. The dogs loved me more than their owners. But not the snobby poodles, you know.”

Both looked to the sun—a tone of midnight moon, imprinted on a pond rock sky. They both anchored their faces to look upon each other. Clyde’s eyes: emerald green and empty— empty of creativity. But handsome with a carved wooden face, he pulled up a smile.

“You are not bad looking,” she said.

“You look like Angelina Jolie,” he said.

“If we are so beautiful, why are we going to starve to death?”

A limo rolled the snow lumps behind them. Three windows long, it stopped. The exhaust pipe rattled streams of twirling grays. A tinted reflection blurred their heads like a rattled puddle. Motorized; the window opened down. An older man with a pipe and thick black government glasses said. “What are you two kids doing out here?”

“Freezing our asses off,” Clyde said.

Bonnie elbowed Clyde’s armpit. The brief pain enraged him. Instead of punching her neck; he strangled the green teak—the closest thing.

“We are hungry mister,” she said. Bonnie refolded a creased photograph of a white cat with chilled glass eyes: one blue; one green.

Silence ruled as the endless snow tickled the delicate edges of twigs. The limo ticked and idled. The old man sucked the wood flavored pipe into his saliva. Bonnie studied Clyde’s eyes; they sat in his sockets like two hardened pebbles.

“Buy us dinner?” Clyde said.

“I’m Victor…meet me inside the Hotel,” he said.

The three met in the dining room around a white-clothed table. Bonnie sat next to Clyde and Victor across. The waiter passed long laminated menus out and splashed ice and water into three large wine glasses. “Bread?” he said.

“Two baskets, lots of butter,” Victor said.

“What do you want?” Clyde said.

Victor washed the wood flavor off his tongue crunching an ice cube. The cold burned his upper teeth. “I have a twenty-year-old nephew upstairs: a virgin; I would appreciate it if you could cure him of that.”

“You want her to fuck your nephew over a steak dinner?” Clyde said. “Then toss us back out in the snow?”

Victor swallowed the puzzle of an ice cube. He contemplated them, burying a scowl, like two upright cockroaches polluting his table. His limo driver sat in the distance; an unfolded newspaper on a bar stool by the fireplace. “I will get you a room, next to mine, for entire week, we stay. You, my dear—will fuck my nephew for breakfast and dinner, and you both will be fed. Then; you are back out to freeze to death.”

Clyde palmed Bonnie’s jeaned knee cap. “I will supervise so there is no funny business.”

“I will too,” Victor said.

A black spider the size of a grizzly bear came through the bar door. Naked; furry legged; with still, reflective eyes; it found Clyde. Victor ordered wine as the spider walked to the table. Clyde imagined the insides of the spider’s fuzzy rear-end that tilted towards the ceiling. Clear poison dripped on the carpet under the arachnid’s eyes. The poisonous gloss played Clyde’s portrait like two television sets.

“Rib eye for both my guests, Reynold,” Victor said.

The spider’s black shape morphed into a red pour of Clyde’s glass. His madness cleared like a dissipating fog.

An Armenian in a tight dress shirt wearing a heavy black watch handed Clyde a room key card. “You are in 237 and we are in 238,” Victor said.

Everyone shared an elevator to the sixth floor. Crystal chandeliers and a long-flowered carpet laid a path to Victor’s oak door. Brian, hunched in a Steelers jersey, hammered the buttons on a game controller. “Hey Uncle,” he said.

“Brian this is…,” Victor said. His expression bulged with eyeballs made of ice cream dripping for two quick answers.

“I am Clyde, and this is Bonnie,” Clyde said.

“Undress please,” Victor said. “I’m a busy man and if I’m to support everyone, I must work, haven’t I?”

Bonnie dropped her jaw on Clyde’s blankness. Thanks for standing up for me. She thought.

“You heard the man, sweetheart,” Clyde said.

The three men watched Bonnie’s slim figure climb out of her bundled pink womb to exhibit: a firm ass, a round bubble-butt, a flat-iron stomach, and a large set of swinging tits that glowed as she nested her clothes on a cushioned chair.

“You are the best uncle.”

A 19-year-old erection in a football jersey waddled behind her. He fumbled with a condom and littered the purple wrapper by his feet.

“Whiskey?” Victor said.

“Hell yes,” Clyde said.

Both men sat on the edge of a king mattress and watched Bryan’s pale ass jiggle in the lamp light. In mid thrust, he ripped off his Steelers jersey. He cupped Bonnie’s tits, which suspended a left and right sway. His tongue dropped like a cash register drawer—eyes rolled back like the sun being devoured by a horizon.

“Oh, oh, oh fuck, oh fuck,” Brian said. “Ugh……. fuck, oh, fuck.”

Brian swallowed her strawberry shampoo through his burning lungs as the condom drooped down like a cream filled water balloon.

Bonnie wore the large black spider like erotic lingerie. She turned and its eight legs covered everything but her vagina and breasts. Clyde jabbed Victor’s Adams Apple and splashed his knuckles into the spider’s mirrored eyes. Seamen, flying puddles of whiskey, and two men plopped to the carpet.

“You do this after I was sexually assaulted?” Bonnie asked.

They filled their pockets with watches, folded cash—clipped in gold clips, rings, two leather wallets, and a silver .38 revolver. They bantered.

“You have a very nice ass,” Clyde said.

“Fuck you…and why are they not getting up?” she said.

“I used to box,” he said.

“You wait until after I am…,” she said.

They took the elevator down to the basement. The vast cement floor—empty of furniture, covered in crimson red throw carpets. A micro-library with two lavender sofas—lantern lit up the corner. The sweet odor of bleach tickled Clyde’s nostrils. “This way,” he said.

The laundry room had blue air, rattling cycles, pungent chemicals that sparked the musty gravity.

“The chemical smell and industrial atmosphere makes me horny,” Clyde said.

“So you like cleanliness,” Bonnie said.

They both found a mop room—dim lit by a red bulb. The shelves, jam stocked with blue soap bars wrapped in plastic paper. Clyde’s blood-stained thumb pushed the dead bolt over. He turned to Bonnie and kissed the corner of her frown.

They found a steal pipe ladder; climbed it into the laundry room’s attic. Into a four-foot-high splintered room with ancient plywood. Pink cotton spilled out the walls. The soft odor of bleach streamed up a vent.

“It should be safe here…let’s sleep,” Clyde said.

“Well at least it’s warm,” she said. “What if those thugs find us?”

“I’ll kill them,” he said.

The heat undressed the two of them. Clyde slid the revolver and goods (mowing down splinters) into the dark shapes. Bonnie laid into him with her back turned. Her voice erupted as he took in the cuteness of the back of her ear. It looked like a flower with three freckles. She spoke from her belly with words that tasted rich of strawberry perfume. He placed his rough palm on her thigh.

“I do not think we are bad people,” she said. “We are artists and artists are meant to suffer.” Her feminine voice shook her long body and vibrated the creases in her swan-like neck.

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” Clyde said.

“You are too, big boy,” she said.

“I’m am sacred and I want you to be inside of me,” she said.

Clyde peaked down the milky valley of her lower back and ass. His penis–ached–hard as it jabbed her firmness. She felt his masculine stiffness and backed into it. Her insides soaked, he entered. She moaned and started talking.

“I think you are a good man…,” she said.

Clyde’s entire soul politely invaded her. Like a beast and protector looking to find peace with pleasure. They both became one. Clyde sucked on her ear lobe as her voice erupted. Each vowel exhaled: feminine, sweet, vulnerable, with the scent of fresh pruned garden.

“I feel we are one…,” she said.

The vibration of her body and her sweet voice touched Clyde to a point of absurd numbness and electricity. “Oh God,” he said.

Everything that strangled his childish thoughts for most his life, spilled into her. The delicate flooding lasted several seconds. It spilled and splayed warmness that both felt. She leaned into him and both their lips stuck together like stickers.

Clyde rolled over and dusted the splinters off his naked ass. He wobbled to a gunshot hole that trickled in New England’s frost. The winter freshness kissed his eye as he looked yonder. Two lanterns lit a sign of the small-town bank next door.

“What do you see out their love?” she said.

“Get some rest,” he said.

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