She sat bathed in the blue light of her computer screen. The top few buttons of her blouse were undone over her push-up bra. She hadn’t bothered putting on trousers. A blanket would do if she felt a chill climbing up her legs, but that scenario was unlikely. Jo-Jo didn’t feel the cold.
The neighbours on one side were throwing dishes at each other once again, and the neighbour on the other side was emptying his stomach contents into the toilet in loud, echoing heaves. The walls were as thin as paper. The layers upon layers of crumbling plaster only took precious inches away from living space. It didn’t care about revealing the neighbours at their most vulnerable.
The gunshots under the window made the glass shake. They were an increasingly common occurrence. They would have been easy to mistake for fireworks in a country with heavy restrictions on gun use and ownership. Even Jo-Jo had been fooled at first.
Jo-Jo blocked it all out; every tab open in her browser was more important. Each tab brought her and her child into a man’s life. All except that one tab. It being somewhat difficult to keep track, she kept a highlighted list to tell each one apart. It saved her from carrying it around in her head. In Jo-Jo’s head, all was blank and silent. As it should be.
Crying travelled through the thin wall. She knew the sound was from her baby. She told the man she was chatting to that her baby was sick, so she couldn’t come out to meet him wearing her sexy granny panties with lace. She switched tabs with one hand. With the other, she reached for the remote control – always nearby.
Vibrations from the floor travelled through her feet. Old Woman Mabel was a bit too feisty for Jo-Jo’s liking. The old bat should be long in her grave. She hadn’t looked that old when Jo-Jo had decided a baby would help with the men. Four years later, Mabel looked like she should crawl into the crematorium and fall asleep (to save the undertaker the effort of carting her away). Like everyone else in the block, Old Woman Mabel wouldn’t be missed.
Jo-Jo flicked a switch on the home-made remote control. It wasn’t any more sophisticated than a home-made remote control for a bomb. The crying stopped. Peace at last. The only sounds Jo-Jo was sensitive to was the banging of Old Woman Mabel’s broomstick and the baby crying. She didn’t know how the old bat had sneaked into her thoughts, but the baby she had to be tuned into. It made chatting to the men and making them want her more easier.
The man on the next tab was well and truly ensnared. He was all wrapped up with the promise of feeling Jo-Jo’s vaginal wall. Down there had teeth. But he didn’t know that. Jo-Jo wasn’t about to inform him.
2
Since the invention of the Internet and the world becoming a much smaller, more connected place, Jo-Jo’s basic existence had become a hell of a lot easier. Basking in the blue light in the early hours didn’t give her life, but the energy men pumped into their conversations and fantasies not only gave her breath for her lungs and a heartbeat, but it restored her youth to the point she passed herself off as a student despite being years more advanced than Old Woman Mabel.
All of this was done from the comfort of her own home, no matter what flat she decided to plant those roots in – somewhere violent and over-populated where she could remain anonymous. There was life without a trail of bodies leading to her doorstep.
This one enjoyed the company of a wife and kids, with a side family already. He thought the way to impress Jo-Jo was his wife’s nudes. He also sent pictures of his mistress. The mistress was younger and firmer. Jo-Jo looked younger still. He didn’t know the bra beneath her blouse was of the push-up variety. She had nipple enhancers, so he didn’t think she was wearing one.
She saved the photographs to her hard drive, backed up in the cloud and moved onto the next tab without a glance. The pictures only came in useful later.
The crying came through the thin walls again. She was amazed it didn’t knock them down. Too much plaster kept them standing. The entire block would collapse if it weren’t for layers upon layers of plaster. Some of it was the original plaster. Jo-Jo saw it lying on the floor when it chipped away. She didn’t want to think about what the wall underneath it all looked like.
Jo-Jo slapped the controller against her bare thigh, muttering “what’s wrong with this thing” under her breath. Old Woman Mabel heard that too. Her sense of hearing was far too keen. Jo-Jo wondered if the old bat had received experimental surgery, or turbo-charged hearing aids. It hadn’t been that good when Jo-Jo moved into the flat. She could have had wild parties and the old bat would have never noticed.
She clicked to the next tab. The baby continued its cries, getting desperate and higher pitched. If the remote wouldn’t work, there wasn’t much she could do about the baby without removing herself from her chair. The effort of even thinking about it was too much. Jo-Jo was the sort to sit on a bedpan so she wouldn’t have to move.
Old Woman Mabel down below banged with the end of her broom or mop or whatever instrument it was she implemented in getting the noisy neighbours to shut up. All the plaster she cracked and banged away would eventually make the entire block come down over her head.
This tab was a woman, Jo-Jo’s form of community service. A young student from up North some place who desired to be trained. Most of the training could be conducted through the fibre optic cables that criss-crossing the country.
Jo-Jo dreaded travelling to some other flat and being bitten by some other person’s fleas and lice. She couldn’t transfer her special lab-created DNA to any student though. The only thing she could share was her knowledge of ensnaring men and advance manipulation techniques. Jo-Jo should write a book, but that would be too much effort, despite the pay-out in the long term when she could simply refer women to her book.
It was a trip she had been putting off. Now, she must plan for it. Something she was loathe to do. Even appointing a travel agent required a few phone conversations and making it to the bus stop on time. As well as putting on pants. Pants were over-rated, she couldn’t sit on a bedpan in a cat suit.
Batteries fell onto the floor from the insistent hitting of the remote against her thigh. She would have to get up before Old Woman Mabel decided to climb the stairs, lugging a Zimmer frame she didn’t need behind her. Dealing with the baby required less energy than dealing with Old Woman Mabel.
Old Woman Mabel told anyone who would listen she couldn’t manage anything more than a shuffle but Jo-Jo still bore the aluminium frame shaped bruises across her back to prove how Old Woman Mabel was using the walking aide. Only her online lovers believed her story. There was no use in going to the police. Even if they didn’t laugh her out of the station, they wouldn’t do anything except take a statement. Leaving the flat required pants, shoes and socks – a shower too, Jo-Jo had been smelling a bit ripe for days now.
She peeled her bare skin from the faux-leather seat, cellulite pinching, and stood up with a wince. Standing always brought with it a flash of reality. It didn’t bring any pain though. Someone sat in front of the blue glow should feel lightheaded and stiff. Jo-Jo didn’t. To feel pain was a distraction and needed a bit of effort on her part. She faked it for her online lovers. Faking it was better than the real thing.
To purchase Ghetto Super Skank on amazon, go here (please note, Dani Brown will be updating the cover for a third time soon, so if you are fond of the current cover, best get the paperback now).
To buy the ebook on godless (where it is cheaper), go here.
The neighbours on one side were throwing dishes at each other once again, and the neighbour on the other side was emptying his stomach contents into the toilet in loud, echoing heaves. The walls were as thin as paper. The layers upon layers of crumbling plaster only took precious inches away from living space. It didn’t care about revealing the neighbours at their most vulnerable.
The gunshots under the window made the glass shake. They were an increasingly common occurrence. They would have been easy to mistake for fireworks in a country with heavy restrictions on gun use and ownership. Even Jo-Jo had been fooled at first.
Jo-Jo blocked it all out; every tab open in her browser was more important. Each tab brought her and her child into a man’s life. All except that one tab. It being somewhat difficult to keep track, she kept a highlighted list to tell each one apart. It saved her from carrying it around in her head. In Jo-Jo’s head, all was blank and silent. As it should be.
Crying travelled through the thin wall. She knew the sound was from her baby. She told the man she was chatting to that her baby was sick, so she couldn’t come out to meet him wearing her sexy granny panties with lace. She switched tabs with one hand. With the other, she reached for the remote control – always nearby.
Vibrations from the floor travelled through her feet. Old Woman Mabel was a bit too feisty for Jo-Jo’s liking. The old bat should be long in her grave. She hadn’t looked that old when Jo-Jo had decided a baby would help with the men. Four years later, Mabel looked like she should crawl into the crematorium and fall asleep (to save the undertaker the effort of carting her away). Like everyone else in the block, Old Woman Mabel wouldn’t be missed.
Jo-Jo flicked a switch on the home-made remote control. It wasn’t any more sophisticated than a home-made remote control for a bomb. The crying stopped. Peace at last. The only sounds Jo-Jo was sensitive to was the banging of Old Woman Mabel’s broomstick and the baby crying. She didn’t know how the old bat had sneaked into her thoughts, but the baby she had to be tuned into. It made chatting to the men and making them want her more easier.
The man on the next tab was well and truly ensnared. He was all wrapped up with the promise of feeling Jo-Jo’s vaginal wall. Down there had teeth. But he didn’t know that. Jo-Jo wasn’t about to inform him.
2
Since the invention of the Internet and the world becoming a much smaller, more connected place, Jo-Jo’s basic existence had become a hell of a lot easier. Basking in the blue light in the early hours didn’t give her life, but the energy men pumped into their conversations and fantasies not only gave her breath for her lungs and a heartbeat, but it restored her youth to the point she passed herself off as a student despite being years more advanced than Old Woman Mabel.
All of this was done from the comfort of her own home, no matter what flat she decided to plant those roots in – somewhere violent and over-populated where she could remain anonymous. There was life without a trail of bodies leading to her doorstep.
This one enjoyed the company of a wife and kids, with a side family already. He thought the way to impress Jo-Jo was his wife’s nudes. He also sent pictures of his mistress. The mistress was younger and firmer. Jo-Jo looked younger still. He didn’t know the bra beneath her blouse was of the push-up variety. She had nipple enhancers, so he didn’t think she was wearing one.
She saved the photographs to her hard drive, backed up in the cloud and moved onto the next tab without a glance. The pictures only came in useful later.
The crying came through the thin walls again. She was amazed it didn’t knock them down. Too much plaster kept them standing. The entire block would collapse if it weren’t for layers upon layers of plaster. Some of it was the original plaster. Jo-Jo saw it lying on the floor when it chipped away. She didn’t want to think about what the wall underneath it all looked like.
Jo-Jo slapped the controller against her bare thigh, muttering “what’s wrong with this thing” under her breath. Old Woman Mabel heard that too. Her sense of hearing was far too keen. Jo-Jo wondered if the old bat had received experimental surgery, or turbo-charged hearing aids. It hadn’t been that good when Jo-Jo moved into the flat. She could have had wild parties and the old bat would have never noticed.
She clicked to the next tab. The baby continued its cries, getting desperate and higher pitched. If the remote wouldn’t work, there wasn’t much she could do about the baby without removing herself from her chair. The effort of even thinking about it was too much. Jo-Jo was the sort to sit on a bedpan so she wouldn’t have to move.
Old Woman Mabel down below banged with the end of her broom or mop or whatever instrument it was she implemented in getting the noisy neighbours to shut up. All the plaster she cracked and banged away would eventually make the entire block come down over her head.
This tab was a woman, Jo-Jo’s form of community service. A young student from up North some place who desired to be trained. Most of the training could be conducted through the fibre optic cables that criss-crossing the country.
Jo-Jo dreaded travelling to some other flat and being bitten by some other person’s fleas and lice. She couldn’t transfer her special lab-created DNA to any student though. The only thing she could share was her knowledge of ensnaring men and advance manipulation techniques. Jo-Jo should write a book, but that would be too much effort, despite the pay-out in the long term when she could simply refer women to her book.
It was a trip she had been putting off. Now, she must plan for it. Something she was loathe to do. Even appointing a travel agent required a few phone conversations and making it to the bus stop on time. As well as putting on pants. Pants were over-rated, she couldn’t sit on a bedpan in a cat suit.
Batteries fell onto the floor from the insistent hitting of the remote against her thigh. She would have to get up before Old Woman Mabel decided to climb the stairs, lugging a Zimmer frame she didn’t need behind her. Dealing with the baby required less energy than dealing with Old Woman Mabel.
Old Woman Mabel told anyone who would listen she couldn’t manage anything more than a shuffle but Jo-Jo still bore the aluminium frame shaped bruises across her back to prove how Old Woman Mabel was using the walking aide. Only her online lovers believed her story. There was no use in going to the police. Even if they didn’t laugh her out of the station, they wouldn’t do anything except take a statement. Leaving the flat required pants, shoes and socks – a shower too, Jo-Jo had been smelling a bit ripe for days now.
She peeled her bare skin from the faux-leather seat, cellulite pinching, and stood up with a wince. Standing always brought with it a flash of reality. It didn’t bring any pain though. Someone sat in front of the blue glow should feel lightheaded and stiff. Jo-Jo didn’t. To feel pain was a distraction and needed a bit of effort on her part. She faked it for her online lovers. Faking it was better than the real thing.
To purchase Ghetto Super Skank on amazon, go here (please note, Dani Brown will be updating the cover for a third time soon, so if you are fond of the current cover, best get the paperback now).
To buy the ebook on godless (where it is cheaper), go here.