Mistress Ann is the alias for a tall, blonde woman in early middle-age who works for a brokerage firm that services supermarkets and with whom I have had various workplace discussions with over the past decade. She’s half feminist and half slave mistress by her demeanor and I believe she would have been at home having my rebellious ass tied to a whipping post and attended to by an overseer back in the day.
Sugar, I was making a right off of Exeter Hall at two in the afternoon when this duct-taped car bumped into the back of my cream-colored Charger.
Let me tell you, I was pissed!
I just had my car coated at Z-Bart, and some Bob Marley-looking dude in a duct-taped beater is going to rear end me! I stopped and flew out of that car in a rage, which I know was stupid, and means I wasn’t thinking, but the hell if I was going to let this slide.
Fortunately I was not dealing with a black woman—or a couple local types—but this skinny, polite, Bob Marley dude. He said, “I’m so sorry, Miss.”
I was of the chain and shouted, “You certainly are you son-of-a-bitch! You hit my car! Let me see your license!”
He stepped back and said, “I do not have a license, Miss.”
I then started at him, “Ooooh—and I suppose you have no insurance either?!”
Then the son-of-a-bitch—a nice guy, really—reaches into his wallet and pulls out a hundred dollar bill. I knew that was all I’d ever get out of him so snatched it, “Get the fuck away from me!”
And off he goes, not a care in the world. Now I have a paint chip the size of my pinkie nail on the rear fender and I’m supposed to get that taken care of with a hundred bucks—are you fucking kidding me? Have a nice day, Sugar.
And off she strutted in high heels and tight jeans as if she owned the planet. Well, I thought, with Mangina Murica in full bloom, I suppose someone has to step up and take charge. It might as well be a bitch on wheels.
Bitch on heels.