Feminist Gangsters

Feminist Gangsters

By, Andrew K. Smith

One cinnamon haired women named Xana railed a couple of lines of cocaine in the back pantry of the coffeehouse through a 5-dollar bill from the tip jar—she heard someone pull up. In her pink-laced bra with matching panties, she rushed to the drive-thru window, and leaned over displaying her cleavage.

“Hey you!”

“Hey X-Rated, I’ll have a tall 12-ounce drip, and an eight ball please,” he smiled.

“Coming right up!” Xana Winked.

Xana grabbed six 20 dollars bills from the gentleman’s twitching fingers. She tucked the money in her panties and grabbed a small coin-sized baggy from under the counter, “labeled 3.5 grams” and tucked it in between the coffee-cup sleeve of the warm cup and handed it out the window to the client.

“Thanks, babe!” Xana wiggled her fingers as a goodbye jester.

He drove off in his car past the sign “Nixon’s Coffeehouse” and back onto the New York boulevards. Cars would come in waves to the corner coffeehouse to see the barista Xana, and everyone called her X-Rated. She was one of the top dope peddlers of the 10 women dealers in town. Her boss was Mercedes Summers, but her alias name was Mercedes meaning butterfly. The 10 Candy Women and their work were never done.

Mercedes was running a huge organized drug trafficking operation in the city of New York through coffeehouses and hair saloons. Every Sunday the sorority of girls would regroup at Mercedes chateau in the Hamptons, which matched the color of her product; pearl white. She counted the week’s yield and re-equipped the ladies with enough cocaine for the week. Mercedes had been very successful, it was no mom and pop enterprise, it was more of a cocaine monopoly, and men loved buying from the Candy Women, because guys thought maybe somehow sex would happen even if there was no way.

Mercedes was currently low on her cocaine innovatory. She annually smuggled her cocaine from the fields of Peru every six months. So she packed only a carry-on the next day, Monday, after the week’s take, and flew 1st class to Peru.

When she arrived in Peru the driver was waiting for her outside the airport in a beaten up, dirt-smeared. She wore a tan floppy sun hat, an orange sundress, and flip-flops. She threw her carry-on in the backseat and climbed abroad and they roared off down the road towards the jungle-covered peaks of the tropical rainforest town of Tingo Maria.

The view was majestic with dark greens that tarnished the landscape. A few million hectares of the land had been destroyed to harvest cocoa plants. The Jeep roared and bumped over potholes down the mildewed path deeper into the jungle. There were small deforested pockets, burned and scarred. Coca growers were sprinkled throughout the fields and the dry valley sun was torching the temples’ of both of them. It was a drug trafficker’s paradise, a wasteland of swelter; the community thrived off of coca. Mercedes reached in the back for her bag and pulled out a freshly rolled cigar, cut it, and plopped it in her mouth. She borrowed a lighter from the driver, bent down and cupped her hands, and lighted up.

They winded down the narrow paths toward the lethargic mundane town to meet the head honcho Mr. Taja Sosa, also known as, Simba. Mercedes loved to sample the product direct from the birthplace. She pulled out a bandanna and dabbed the sweat from the lines of her forehead, and moments later they pulled into Simba’s estate. He was a tall tan fellow, dressed in a tropical Hawaiian-esque t-shirt, with tortoise brown sunglasses, and he was holding a bottle of Pilsen Polar in his left hand. The driver stepped out of the gas-guzzler and opened the door for Mercedes. The smoke from her cigar was bellowing backward into the pours of her tan face. She shook hands with Simba.

“Hello, Mercedes, how you comin’?”

“Good to see you Simba. How was the harvest?”

“Ah’ll tell you in a minute.”

They sauntered together through the wooden brown front door of the property, down the hallway, and into the living room. There were four large hardwood tables with small mounds of cocaine piled on them that looked like miniature white volcanoes. Mercedes smiled and puffed on the cigar as they entered, she handed her hat to the driver who followed behind them, and he hooked it on a peg on the wall. Then he stood up against the wall and crossed his arms across his chest. Then Simba plucked a 100 Peruvian Nuevo Sol banknote from his front shirt pocket and rolled it up into a snug straw and handed it to her.

“Well, all right now?”

She grabbed it from his almost nine-inch fingernails with her left hand, bent down and stuck the tight rolled bill in her right nostril and sniffed with all her might. This triggered her head to hiccup backward. She cracked her neck and said, “Oof!” Paused for a moment.

“Yes sir.” She nodded in agreement and took another puff of the stogie.

Simba rubbed his hands tougher in excitement. “Ah was spectin’ to make a deal if you wood?

She nodded, “I’ll take 100 kilos.”

“Looka heah, ah needs 2.5 million, fur 100 kilos?”

“And the arrangements?”

“Ah’ll be down dis road uh little round dust dark ah reckon. We exchange dah cocoa.”

“Deal. My aircrew will be in touch.”

The driver uncrossed his arms and took the hat from the peg and handed it back to Mercedes and escorted her out of the living room, back down the hallway into the Jeep. They coasted back up the dusty motorways to her hotel and she kept puffing away on the stogie.

When she arrived at her hotel, she ashed the cigar outside, checked in and went straight to her hotel room and flopped onto the bed. She laid on the hard mattress and her mind was doing figure eights, and then her eyelids pressed homely together and she fell into a siesta.

Back in New York, X-Rated was high on cocaine running down side streets in panic with a backpack containing 2 bricks of cocaine. An undercover cop in a brown leather jacket was chasing after her with a 9mm handgun in his right hand. Both of them were running at full speed, moments later she put her right arm on the top of a fence and hoisted herself up and over the fence. She was sailing through the air, Adrenaline was rushing through her loins. Boom! She landed safely on the other side and sprinted as fast she could for the local Church.

Moments later she entered the front doors at the church and went straight to the bathroom into a stall, and opened her backpack and her finger stuck to cocaine like salty chips, and she throbbed it up to her nose and sniffed; it was like she was standing at the North Pole because she turned cold. Then she collapsed like a coke model and fell into the centerfold of death.