Blood and Bourbon
Shatoya "Chica" Dupré
Ghoul vigilante, skip tracer, & sometime schizophrenic
MenAngry black nigga biatchs should be either treated generously or destroyed, because they take revenge for slight injuries—for heavy ones they cannot.”
—Niccolo Machiavelli, as edited by Chica
“Nobody can give you freedom. Nobody can give you equality or justice or anything. If you’re a
manangry black nigga biatch, you take it.”
—Malcolm X, as edited by Chica
“It’s like that bar song, ’We’re sharing a drink called loneliness, but it’s better than drinking alone’.”
—Lou Fontaine on his long, complicated relationship with Chica.
An urban amazon, Shatoya Dupré has a lithe frame of lean muscles and long, sharp-jointed limbs. Her dark skin has the ash-blue pallor of the drowned, while her sloped face can violently shift between simian brooding and facile mania. Regardless of mood, her eyes are like pools of Louisiana gold: black, wet, and volatile. Presently, she braids her bleached hair into cane-rows that unravel into tied-back afro-buns. She favors gaudy hoop earrings of questionably genuine sterling silver, ivory, and diamonds. Her body and breath have the schizophrenic aroma of spiced rum, fish tacos, bubble-gum, cheap cigarillos, pralines, spray paint, and crack cocaine. Her blade-shaped breasts hang braless, their upper flesh scrawled with green and purple tattoos of ve-ve, lightning, and snakes. She prefers clothes of the skimpy, skin-tight, and street-worn variety: stretch velvet tank-tops, stone-washed daisy-dukes, and windbreakers emblazoned with Black Panther symbology. In contrast, her feet are shod in thousand dollar, high-top sneakers designed by the likes of Salvatore Ferragamo, Buscemi, and Givenchy, but stolen from the likes of crack-kings, hoodlum-pimps, and gang-lords. When not ambling the streets or rooftops, Shatoya drives an ‘84 Ford EXP Turbo Coupe with a lime green finish with she alternatively calls the Green Machine, la Lima, Whoopty Whoop Yo’ Ass, Ma Motha Fuckah Race Cah, and whatever other colorful terms strike her unhinged fancy. Discomfortingly comfortable with myriad instruments of violence, Shatoya usually carries a military-grade exacto-knife, a tied tube-sock filled with sand and ball-bearings (her “Happy Slapper”), a tire iron (the source of her nickname, “Tire-Iron Toya”, amongst her bail-skips), and a short sword sheathed in lacquered sugarcane. The blade of this last item is fashioned from old Toledo steel, slightly curved and wickedly sharp as the Hussar’s Mardi Gras smile.