Category


Author

Retribution on Cash Street

Retribution on Cash Street

Retribution on Cash Street

A Prose Piece by Lisa Rhodes-Ryabchich

     The cars ejected around the block like blood dripping out of a festering sore.  

Every artery on Cash street was jumbled with children jutting out of bushes away from their 

friend’s houses back to their wild lawns growing with vehicles and foreign tongues lashing at 

each other, hammering rules of achievement, setting the bar for success. Success so far-

fetched that even a macho young 15- year-old man/boy has no use for adult chatter and 

meaningless ideals but to smoke a joint with the neighbors 22-year-old nanny recently escaped 

from the walls of a detention center with the ambition of a rock star.  She had a regime of two 

joints in the morning and five in the afternoon, interspersed throughout the hours when Javier 

arrived home from school.  His “fuck you” attitude is  too exciting for her to miss. He eludes of 

self-hate. His young boy and miniature-size manhood have bothered her sense of what a man 

should be.  He falls short of achieving her respect.  He is the kid her brother never seemed to 

like, bossy and arrogant. The one who felt everybody’s path didn’t really matter.  He 

could spit you out, and step on you like a boulder erupting off a mountain after an earthquake.  

What tremors Javier had inside about his life and where he was going, nobody knew more than 

her.

    She peeled away his first layer of fuck-up get out of my way cuss words the first day 

Lydia met him.  He had sat at the edge of the neighbor’s pool in his loose bathing suit and 

stared over at Lydia with eyes of wanting but his lips said, “Fuck off” without speaking anything.  

When Lydia questioned him with a polite “How are you” her smile exuded mischief; her breath 

was a peppermint bowl of sassafras satisfaction chewed between her teeth, and her overtly 

green eyes tinted from contact lenses watered with the illusion of having had watched a 

sensual movie about lovers lost on an island after being shipwrecked, and left survivors, 

once their Swan plane had crash landed into the oceans of Patagonia.  Lydia had only been 

in the states for six weeks and was not yet adjusted to her rigorous routine of being the driver 

for the family’s five kids who were the most important children she had ever met and their 

schedules kept her jumping for new ways to navigate the landscape of America and 

to learn as much about the inner mechanism of what made a society run like a clock 

stuck on lunchtime. 

      

     So, was eating the way to make it in the USA?  Parties of kids snacking on everything 

from carrot sticks with dip made from hummus and salad dressing, and gluten free treats for 

those sensitive to wheat and for some Kit Kats permeated the lunch boxes and Twinkies were

for the kids whose parents didn’t care about their waistlines or chronic inactivity, and the 

push-up kids, who would work out for ten-minutes after begging for leftovers from everyone’s 

meal, then vanish to the gym for a game of basketball or kickball (if they were in grammar 

school).   The local grammar school kickball team had better runners than the long-legged boys 

in high school dunkin balls like effortless bats, who came out to play only in the dark hours 

which scared the hell out of a few dysfunctional folks, heavily stocked with Colt 45s and 

shotguns resting in their front door closets, fully loaded to aim right for the head, if anyone 

should dare step on their property. 

     There were a few girls sitting at the neighbor’s pool, all friends of 13 year–old Gail, an 

overweight cheerleader with a flat chest and big brown eyes, who could sing like Donna 

Summer’s.  Her friends were not pretty but were shy and ineffectual kissers.  Javier had made a 

pass at each of them on different days.  Monday: it was Linda, shapely hot, but lackluster in her 

face.  She looked like her mom had vomited her out, and acne pulsated on her face around her 

penciled in smile like she had measles.  On Tuesday it was Veronica or “Ronnie” as 

she liked to be called, who was a princess of sorts with red hair, freckles and blue 

button eyes awakening under the sun like a juicy sweet watermelon.  She aimed to 

please with a bevy of red facial lines looking as if they were sewed onto her face like 

a worn-out Raggedy Ann doll.  Her eyes irritated her from the over-chlorinated pool

water and she looked like Dracula but with her black mascara smeared under her eyes 

It made  her look like a spotted leopard, except she had such pretty waist length hair 

with ringlets of curls that manifested after the sun dried her luscious red roots, giving 

her the distinct edge of looking like a sexy vixen with sun-kissed thighs which rang in 

everyone’s mind because of the way the sun made pastel shadows dance on her skin 

and they imploded onto her perfect calves smooth like she had just lathered lotion 

onto them but they had started to blister from the UV rays. She had forgotten her sunblock 

for the 3rd day in a row and no one else needed it but her.  “Hey beautiful, want to spend some 

time with me rubbing my back. I could use some real R&R,” Javier smirked at her trying to get 

her to notice his new dragon tattoo that he  had gotten on his back which was starting to get 

sunburned.  “Maybe another time when I’m bored and can use some company,” she said with a 

grin.  On Wednesday it was Janet. She was a natural Mediterranean Sicilian from western 

Europe. Her people had a 1/4 of African Blood in their line and her skin tanned like a bohemian 

princess.  She smelled of Dark Coconut tanning oil and it glistened off her skin like a 

slick highway ready to smash any drunken driver to pieces who dared to drive their 

hands anywhere near her body even for a quick feel.  

     One day Javier tried to squeeze Ronnie’s 34C boobs after she was climbing up 

the pool ladder to get out after doing her twenty therapeutic body toning laps. He was 

right behind her and grabbed her peachy breasts later claiming he thought she was 

falling backward onto him and he had to break her fall. It was the first thing he could 

easily grab that might knock some sense into her to recognize that he too was 

scared of drowning and falling into that deep dark pool back into his own misery if 

she rejected his advances.  “Get off of me, you jerk,” she screamed. He then, as if she was 

awakening him from a trance, got leg kicked in the balls, a reflex she claimed was from being 

taught Judo, after watching her mother get mugged when she was a child, and so Javier fell 


sharply backward, immediately into the blue sunlit water, something akin to doing a back 

flop, except he sunk for a longtime, and it wasn’t until the life guard hired for just 

this occasion, dove in, to pull his wounded aching body out of the pool.  He checked 


for Javier’s pulse and did two rescue breaths. Javier started to cough and spit up 


water vomiting out of his mouth and green bile ejected all over the pool area 

dripping back over the side edge into the water where Simone was watching, a 13- 

year old genius who won the national spelling championship last year. 

     Simone had been invited to Harvey’s TV show and appeared with all those 


other geniuses.  Harvey, she said was the most huggable man she had ever hugged 


and he laughed like a big kid himself and made her feel like she was still a kid even 

after all the sex she had had with her father who was always mistaking her room for 

her sisters.  Her sister, Jane was fifteen and had been molested by their father since she 

was nine-years-old.  Their mother Angela was an ex-stripper and an alcoholic drug addict who 

only cared about getting high and drinking with the ladies at the local bar.  She hung out at 

Ladies Night every Thursday and everyone came from their little houses and they talked 

about their shitty jobs and lives and drank tequila and kamikazes until the bartender threw 

them all out. 

     Once Angela confessed to Mike, a 6’5 tall dark haired handsome 32-year-old bartender 

turned dad only two years ago.  She dumped all her problems on his kind ears telling him how 

she suffered from drug addiction and how her husband had lost all interest in her sexually and 

her suspicions that he was molesting her children. “Dear Jesus, what did I do to deserve that 

bastard in my life?” she asked mike as tears slid down her face while she clutched a vodka 

martini in her right hand still wearing a gaudy 40 karat diamond ring.  “Nothing, dear God 

nothing. You have to kick him out to get your kids respect back,” he whispered loudly into her 

ear then squeezed her hand tightly almost bruising her ring finger. Angela looked mournful but 

was still drunk and staggered away from the barstool almost tripping over her feet.  Mike 

realizing that she was extremely drunk offered to drive her home after closing. An extra piece

of cake was all Mike could fantasize about especially since his own sex life had waned since the 

birth of his baby and nothing was more pleasing to him then to console a damsel in distress.  He


would gain pleasure in helping to free her from the clutches of her tormenter if she would strip 

tease for him and be his private dancer.

     Mike was used to getting up every half hour, when his wife Melody first had their baby girl, 


Tracy because he didn’t believe mothering was something only women did. He drank often 


from the open tap he had created for himself, sipping a little rum vodka and bourbon to start 


the night right. A trip like the one he had on this concoction made him feel like a new man.   It 


wouldn’t be until next week when Mike would get paid and have to haggle about the bills and 


paying for the lawn maintenance crew and the big trip his wife had on lay away at the travel 


agency where she was having an affair with Bob, a scrawny little European man with the bank 


account of one billion dollars, which was money he had won from a horse racing bet he had 


placed about a year-ago when he was experimenting with “Genius” the wow pill, supposed to 


make you one of the smartest people in the world.  It had been advertised on Dr. Oz and was 

supposed to bridge that gap between “obsolescence” and being over the top in IQ. 

     Bob had made the decision to try as many brain-altering pills as possible since his wife’s 

rapid decline from Parkinson’s a year ago. He had been a caregiver for her for over twenty 

years. He thought he deserved some happiness.  He hadn’t had much, there were no children, 

“no local family,” just the two of them and an aide who came to help out every day. Life 

had been a chore, except for the ten private dancers he had hired on Mother’s Day, to strip 

tease dance, perform and give him lap dances around the clock, while he blasted disco lights 

in the living room and Barry White music moaned and howled in the background in a 

deep groovy voice oozing sexuality and it was enough to get him into the mood. The last time 

Bob had an erection, it lasted more than five hours. He couldn’t walk out of his apartment 

for fear he would be seen as an obscene pedophile.  

     Melody was very unaware of Bob’s promiscuous sexual appetite and thought she 

was the only one he was interested in after he gave her a huge discount on a trip

to Nicaragua last Summer and she and Mike got to see the strip of land that she had

almost died on as the truck she was riding in was hit by shrapnel, after the truck before hers got 

hit by a roadside bomb, when she was in the Marine reserve back in 1992. Melody was a 

rough tough Brooklyn soldier who took no prisoners and being young and naïve had 

signed up never imagining she would see any action.  After winding up in the 

hospital with her right leg badly burned and an amputated big toe from her right foot Melody 

appeared different and begged for mercy to be able to go home and leave the life of 

adventure for the next generation of Marine grunts looking to escape the ghetto. At 

least she would get her GI bill and her full Marine pension. But being the wife of a bartender 

never was that exciting. Mike spent many hours flirting with customers and partying 

at the end of his shift and came home too drunk to pay any attention to her desires. 

Even when she was asleep Mike would insist that Melody have sex with him and she 

often let him do whatever he wanted to her. Melody didn’t care if Mike raped her as long as 

she didn’t have to be awakened fully or have to actively engage in the sex act.  She 

could be psychologically removed from the marriage and fulfill her role as wife with 

little interest.  

    Once Mike had a heart attack and he pushed his medical guardian button 

laying on his chest but when the emergency crew came they had to try to pry his penis

out from Melody’s vagina because it got stuck.  They called it this weird word: 

penis captivis. He had a 10-inch penis and his Melody was only a skinny 4’11 and she 

started to have vaginal spasms which the doctor called vaginismum at about the same 

time he was having a heart attack.  Both wound up in the emergency room where

they stay stuck for hours as he throbbed inside her.  When his penis emerged, 

it was swollen and purple and barely able to function.  They could hardly catheritize

him to do any surgery on his heart.  Melody thought she was home free and almost a widow 

but the doctors seemed to have every treatment available for Mike to provide him with a

whole new body to last him for a lifetime.

     A year later at Bob’s funeral everyone knew him as a gentle soul, miserably lonely 

and successful but sexual didn’t seem to be part of that list.  The lap dancers 

had visited him and his wife many joyous times for dinner but Melody had made-love

to him numerous times on a rented Cessna plane as they toured the New York City

skyline on odd weekends in mid-afternoon, drinking vodka martinis, and experimenting

with sex-toys and bondage. Melody had been raped in the Marine’s by her commanding

officer who had physically tied her up with rope while he forcibly sodimized her as

she screamed for help.  He later told her “You know you loved it and wanted it!” Bob

had given her back her enjoyment of sex again and he was kind and generous.  He had 

promised her he would take care of her at the end and not to worry.  An anonymous lawyer 

had visited her recently and given her a check for 5 million dollars with a love letter from Bob 

telling her to go find happiness and true love: Dear Melody, you are the most loveable and 

kindest woman in the world in spite of your guilt about marrying beneath yourself.  There is 


someone special for you out there and you have to go find him. Go buy yourself something 

beautiful and treat your precious daughter to something wonderful in life.  I’ll remember you 

always.  With all my love, Bob.

       Bobs wife Katy received the rest of Bobs money of almost a billion dollars. She now  had a 

feeding tube but was still able to talk and her mind was as sharp as a wit fresh out of grad 

school.  She didn’t need to be lonely; her religion was simple: God had made us all different, 

enough to make each of us want something special to leave behind.  A reflective painting, she 

thought might do in slowing the minds’ inner mechanism to awaken the layers of 

contemplation and bliss like the Sun Yun Moon Monastery teachings.  She had a quest for truth 

about her life and what it was supposed to mean, and her hours of suffering were great but 

above it all she rose each day to listen to his spiritual guidance and prayers.  The basic principal 

of predestination soothed her nerves. She never felt persecuted. In her mind Gods plan was 

realized—she had had an ideal homemaker’s life. In some ways she had married the man of her 

dreams, someone who wouldn’t abandon her.  Bob had been committed to his race and felt 

they were superior beings and family above all really mattered; he just needed to recognize his

own humanness. His wife’s failings to satisfy his sexual needs made his sexual proclivities 

acceptable to his wife who enjoyed the risqué exotic flavor of their marriage that his sexual 

indulgences invited. They would laugh hilariously together and talk about the dancers and how 

eager they were to please and about the many new friends they had made and the tasty 

wonderful dinners they had shared in the privacy of their own home knowing they would never 

eat that elegantly again in this lifetime.



THE END. 

Infaguation

Infaguation

Ugly Womyn

Ugly Womyn