• Zenia Platten

Madame Curie and the Girls

Madame Curie stood over the body with a painted nail to her ruby lips. He’d been enjoying himself, his erection still proud and high, somehow maintained through death and into rigor mortise an hour later. Judging by his stab wounds, his partner was having a little less fun.

It wasn’t difficult to pick out the girl who had done it. All twelve were in a line against one wall, whispering to each other between small touches. She was still bloody, bruised fingerprints blossoming around her neck. To her credit, she wasn’t sobbing. Slow, angry tears, but no shoulder shaking, heaving breaths. No weeping.

She’d used a letter opener, left beside the bed as a prop with the whips and handcuffs. Most of the guys seemed to like having that stuff around, even if it wasn’t their personal preference. Apparently this one was more inclined that way then he’d thought.

Bambi, the girl picking blood off her hands, had been unfortunate enough to draw one of the crazy ones. It was never who you thought either. The big, tattooed bikers would come in, sweet as kittens once you got their clothes off, but then you’d get the accountants, the middle management, and customer service reps. People used to being shat on all day, who’d come for a dose of power or control, and get drunk with it. This one had been in tourism.

Tapping her foot Madame Curie thought through their options. Usually, she’d get the police. It was a cut and dry case of self-defense, and the police officer’s special tended to help them look the other way on the whole prostitution thing. But Bambi, sweet, helpful Bambi, was on probation with a history for violence. Madame Curie wouldn’t have hired her but her upside down Russian twists were so damn popular.

She was too tired for this. She was always tired these days. And sore. And her mouth was always dry. This kind of excitement had been what she was looking for when she started the Glistening Orchid Ring, but a few years in and she was exhausted. Between her research during the day, and managing the girls at night, perhaps she’d stretched herself too thin. Still, something needed to be done.

“Petal,” she barked, and the small brunette snapped to attention, “get Bambi cleaned up. Crystal, Candy, and Kitty, stay in the lobby and make sure no one comes poking around. We’re closed for the night, but if someone won’t take no for an answer just be sure to get their money upfront.” The three veterans nodded. “Venus and Brandi, do what you can to clean up here. Cold water for blood, hot just sets the stain.

“The rest of you, help me get the body wrapped up and in the van. I’ve got a barrel of chemicals in the lab that will render him down faster than an ice cube in tea.”

Her faithful girls leaped into action, trusting her to keep them safe. It wasn’t the first time one of them had been in this kind of trouble, and it wouldn’t be the last time she’d get them out of it. It may not have deserved a Nobel Prize, but the thrill alone was worth it.

Someone was discussing Madame Curie, the Nobel Prize winning Polish physicist and chemist, and I just thought... what if there was more to the Madame? This little blurb grew organically from there.

In case it needs saying: Madame Curie was not (to my knowledge) the proprietor of a brothel, nor did she cover up any murders. I have nothing but respect for her incredible accomplishments. If you'd like to learn more about the woman who won not one, but TWO Nobel Prizes in two different sciences, check out her Wiki page here.

  • White Instagram Icon
  • White Pinterest Icon

©2019 by Zenia Platten.