Chicken Freak by Paul Williams

The city never sleeps. It is forever locked in a state of wakefulness, mashed in permanent fog that allows its unsavoury inhabitants, of which there are many, to perambulate dingy backstreets unseen by their more respectful neighbours.

Ali began work at seven but there were probably others in the brothel who had been there since the previous night. She climbed the steps, smiled at the security guard and sensed that he was smiling back at her retreating arse. Perhaps he would be the one who paid to see her, when his shift finished.

The first to pay.

She entered the communal room and sat on the couch. Nobody else was there. Nobody welcomed her or initiated her. She preferred it that way. She wanted to be in control and didn’t want to be recognised. Didn’t want anyone to tell Li or her parents that she was earning money.

No, actually it was only her parents that she was worried about. If Li found out then he would postpone the wedding and save the loss of her innocence to a stranger.

Surely it wouldn’t be that bad. All she needed was one wealthy client and then she would be able to leave and start a new life elsewhere. Away from Li, his odorous breath and lecherous hands, his acne scarred face, his dandruff and yellow teeth. He had promised to wait until the wedding, content until then to satisfy himself in premises similar to this one.

There were pictures on the walls of nude females. She wondered if she would ever pose in that fashion. Was it just money that motivated them? If so they were fantastic actors because their faces reflected genuine enjoyment.

Gradually others came in. These were the other girls without bookings, the ones who had not been there long enough to have a portfolio of clients. Like her they would have to be selected. Some resembled supermodels, with clothes from the catwalk and perfect hair. Others looked as if they had just walked in from the street, where it was now raining. They would argue that it was a waste of money preparing themselves for a job which they hated. And perhaps they didn’t want to be picked very often.

Despite the fact that they were rivals here there was no hostility. The girls spoke to Ali. They welcomed her into the team and they didn’t ask about her home life. Anonymity was essential in this profession.

Periodically one of the girls would go into the kitchen and carry back a tray of soft drinks. There were magazines to read but most stayed unopened on the table.

Men came in frequently. Sometimes alone. Sometimes in pairs. To her surprise and dismay none of them looked rich. They picked a girl by pointing although some would chat for a few minutes before deciding. She hid at the back of the group, not seeing a man that she liked.

Hiding.

Most girls were away with their clients for about twenty minutes. One came back after an hour with a wad of notes which she waved. However it was all for show. The madam, who didn’t get up at seven, had made it clear that she, via her security staff, took eighty percent.

Whilst waiting some of the girls tried to identify potential clients from the street. A market had been erected now with a few stalls and even fewer customers. The stall traders were a loathsome bunch; middle-aged men with moustaches and portly stomachs that defied their apparent poverty. Their shouting could be heard through the closed window. Perhaps they would visit later.

One man was selling chickens, feeble emaciated beasts packed tightly in a wire cage. She watched as a tramp ambled over, said something and took a chicken in exchange for a coin. He shoved the chicken under his arm and walked toward the brothel.

"Chicken Freak," said one of the girls in a hushed voice.

She watched him pass under the window and knew, before he entered, that he would pick her.

When he came in she stood behind the other girls again, wondering how he could afford the fees. Then the group parted and she saw Chicken Freak in his full glory.

He was a short, shabby man of about fifty. He had unkempt wild brown hair with a full beard and moustache hiding fat lips. His tired eyes widened when he saw her. The chicken also looked in her direction but was not impressed and resumed its frantic efforts to escape.

Chicken Freak pointed at her.

"Do as he says," whispered the girl who had named him.

She followed him from the room, up the stairs and into a small room which contained a double bed.

Chicken Freak felt in his pockets, nearly throttling the chicken, and produced a handful of coins which he dropped on the bed. She mumbled gratitude.

Then she undressed, praying that it would soon be over. Hoping that he might be satisfied with the strip. He had unzipped but not removed his trousers. His penis protruded through the gap. It was ugly and wrinkled.

Chicken Freak produced a knife.

Clients were supposedly searched on arrival.

She backed away.

Chicken Freak threw the chicken at her.

She caught instinctively, at first struggling as the chicken attempted to wriggle free. Then the feeble movement subsided and it clung to her like a mother.

Chicken Freak passed the knife.

He made a cutting gesture and waited impatiently.

She understood what he wanted but not why.

His hands were stroking his penis. It had risen, hardened and apparently solidified. Then the stroking stopped. Chicken Freak looked down at the penis and said "Won’t come."

He pointed again and repeated the cutting gesture. Then, seeing her hesitation, he indicated the coins.

Not looking at the chicken she quickly pulled the knife across its neck. Liquid soaked her hands and she dropped the knife.

Then she saw that liquid was also seeping from Chicken Freak’s penis. His hands were moving the member up and down and he was moaning as he surveyed the now dead chicken which she dropped on the floor.

Eventually the penis released a long spurt of thick liquid and Chicken Freak smiled.

He dressed, bowed low, and said "Thank you." Then he walked out, nearly slipping on the red blood that stained a once white carpet.

Mr Paul Williams

99 Stanmer Park Road

Brighton

BN1 7JL