|Art by Paul Dick © 2012
by j. brooke
He is a soldier, a Major, a hero, a Marine, and he is my man and he is near death. Ramadi,
Fallujah, now Kabul and Taliban tribe guys, you see, fulminated from Biblical beginnings, an eye for an eye, as it was said
in the great book.
Anesthetized kids in vest bombs, micro switches, body parts, Predator
Drones, gangbangers, IED's amid suicide bombers, and every one wanting to be the man. Afghanistan and the egocentric, cannibalistic
cabalism of a President mesmerized with a Jezebel vision of a Jehovah witnessed-thought, a cataclysmic calling that he is
directly connected to God, a real God to so many, yet distorted by the seismic ego of a drunk zealot who could never see his
beauty, only his ugliness.
I can see the heart monitor, the green blip-blip-blip of the tenuous, fragile spider web of his life.
Blip, blip, blip, a hesitation, a moment, it is a
heart monitor metronome of everything that I am. I am a doctor, too, but there is nothing that I can do. His hand is warm,
not because the blood is healing, but because the doctors, the nurses are angels, caring, and every tick of the clock allows
me to live. Does he know I am here, whispering to his bandaged brain, his ripped and torn body? I do not know, but I will
be here until his eyes open, or till the monitor flatlines, which my life will mimic if it does so.
What was I before him? Nothing. A vapid illusion of a woman and yes, it sounds vacuous, empty, as if I was obvious, a transient of a beautiful
female abused, used as a vessel of sperm for ignorant males that use ejaculation as a psalm of their horrid manhood, brains
desensitized from porn, stripper icons of lust and no respect for women whatsoever. I was beautiful, a power broker, lost
and left along the roadside of life, torrid, enraged, ugly before he entered my world and mind and he changed for me everything
forever that I ever was.
He is a man, a soldier. Valiant,
brave, tough, sweet and kind as a moth shying away from the burning torch that I was, that had always incinerated every man
that dare to near it. But not him, he is a soldier, you see. He is warrior, hard,
and he saw me, held me, and heard my weeping and my fears and my words. His penis entered me, sweetly, like the armor of his
pride, as a man, not like a dog or a peacock of vanity, but as a partner, that never feared me. Wiped my tears away, and kissed every lie away from lips that had only ever held illusion within the trembling
words that had forever only fallen from them, and then he forgave me for who I once was.
I felt his penis in my mouth, tasted the semen. It was beautiful, saline as the sea where all
life began, warm and pungent like him, a memory of his past and his present, between my lips, and I saw his fear and pain,
for he was not egocentric, yet so human, so fragile. Bravery came in so many different Crayola color pallets of his mind.
I remember, I must remember the moment that I placed my small hips along his muscled loins, I wept, for he was not ever a
hurried man, and I entered him, deep, slow and lovely and it was a time we shared, of skin, destiny and our memories of love,
which for me was the first time.
We made love, I felt, as
did he, and his body, so lean and muscled, corded, shredded, as did I, and it was real, and it is real, and at moments he
was a cruel man, but it was done with love, orchestrated of fantasy and my own delights, and on my knees, he behind, lunging,
piercing, so a man of passions hurt me, delighted me, and exposed my sex and my wants and I loved him so, for doing so.
I remember days and endless nights, no words, no thoughts, holding in
an embrace of desire and knowing as the rain fell, we were one, really a singular rain drop of such a fusion of souls,
that we felt if there was no other moment that we could choose from to dream our orgasms, we would deny such a moment. This
is the truth of what we are and what I wish we will be again, if only the monitor, the horrid scale of this moment, does not
flame out as I am here still entwining my fingers within his own, please, do not take him away from me.
Blip, blip, blip,
a hesitation, a breath and another blip, and then, I move, take his penis in my hand, I know no other thing to do, under the
sheets, near his life. I want him to know I am present and I hold it, pray to it, will do anything for one more breath of
his life, for what will I do, oh, what will I do if the only man, the only human man, he, is no longer there to shepherd me
away from the life I only ever knew before him.
filled with salt, acrid, demobilized and moving from my soul, what am I going to do? “Blip, blip, blip . . .” Please GOD, I have never asked for anything before, please, I beg, do not take him
from me. This is enough, a soldier wounded within a lie, and here, now, I will spend an eternity if this is all there is,
for how can I survive without his touch, his breath, his life inside of me? Oh,
please, do not abandon me, this time, this moment, this last time.
The machine screams, drones, my eyes panic, search, scream. The sound, nail gunned in my heart,
nurses, doctors, their lovely, they move, I can feel the blood draining from his fingertips, and the sound, a shrill, a meter
of grief and then, finality, a screaming drone telling me all life has now died.
Flatline, dead time,
no time. I plunge to his heart, place my ear to the medals he will never see, as I vaporize and deteriorate.
And now, a plunged needle,
adrenaline, panic, and hoodlumism and maniacal madness, and then, nods, tears, words of solace and in an instant I have died
with my soldier.
Within that thread of time, I
am dead, numb, and because of the zealotry of an ignorant politician zealot Biblical King, my life is over, as I lay my face
to his corpse, weep, shudder, shake apart.
I know now that theirs
is a secret that finally is exposed, and of course it has been exposed before in this America Land, for charlatans are forever
stripped naked of their bigotry and lies and that secret is, that theirs is a God—this I finally understand—and
he has taken my warrior to a warrior’s home.
It is a secret place
where soldiers are uniformed in garments of white feathers, and he will finally find a universe of peace, where once bivouacked
to, there will no longer be red blood spilled along a battlefield of tears, and thus for one soldier, there will never be
another memory of another senseless war again.
|Art by Paul Dick © 2012
for the Doll
by j brooke
She’s a scandalous doll, a harlot, a torrid, twisted, tipsy-turvy
top girl totally jettisoned of any social conscience. She’s one of those bartered bitches: big doll- mascara eyes, hair
so thick it’s been a net trapping men's hearts since she first took her first fucking breath, a true slut in the image
of Madonna. And those lips, like a Cuisinart, you know: cutting, chewing, biting, kissing, making men crazed from the pouts
that lick from that pink tongue that is just as sweet as a candy cane.
She’s Jane or something, some bitch name that just fuels the
sex machine and she’s no damn good. Oh, yes, she is, not set for sainthood,
and I fucking adore her, but what the fuck do I know about water goddesses that are so sexed-up beautiful they shoulda been
taken down like a mad dog long time ago? She’s a fucking train wreck, wrecking havoc with the weak fuck men who thought
they could run with her, play with her, mate with her, sex with her, love with her, then were destroyed by her.
Why? Because they were
just pretenders, wannabe men, that tried to fool her with a bullshit bravado walk they saw on some trumped-up reality TV show
that was a dream to begin with. Then, after she melted their nuts off, they wept like the little fucking boys they always
were and always were going to be.
What is she? I tolja, she’s a babe, a cunt, a trick, a Stephen
Hawking-brain genie, her idol, a virgin in her own twisted mind. She’s a tragic reminder that if a bitch has one of
those cunts like a diamond cut, she can jack up the fella’s, get what she wants, because she’s just too atomically
beautiful for her own fucking good 24/7—including holidays—for she’s on
all the time.
She’s a weeper, weeping, purring, demanding. She’s a
prima donna street whore begging, twisting the truth. Disguised as a gift, she’s
lying, creaming, bending skills of the male kind, grim reaping the whole magilla, all of it, and why? Because she’s
intoxicating and genuine and real and lie-less, and moral-less and has the ethics of a Buddhist Monk and the sex drive of
a fucking Alabama cheerleader.
Men and man-boys melt when she smiles, wince when she ejects them,
rejects them, when she breaks their blood-soaked hearts. They would walk on their tongues five fucking miles if they thought
they could fuck that sapphire-faceted there, just between her legs, and all of
it is because she is the REAL, FUCKING DEAL.
That's right, she knows it. I know it, most men think they know it, but don't, but of fucking course I know her: the
thoughts, the rage, the fury, the tears, the banshee wails for some fuckhead to finally see her, throw her down, slap those
beautiful legs out to the rivets of the bed, rack her up, line her up, slam that cue ball deep, make it fucking hurt, make
her body shudder, shake, rattle and roll, make her scream and rack her fists against the bed rails, and make her plead for
it to stop, make her lie for it to stop, make her mind break apart, make her beg for it to never end.
Someone, something, is better than nada. Anyone. Scatter, spark, connect it all, slap her in the face, make those lips bleed, rip her hair back. Look into
those blazing, crazed, retro-rocket eyes.
Focus, my man, on those wild eyes, my wild eyes, watching the sweat
splashing down her face. Hair tangles, lips pulsating, vibrating, frantic girl, desperate girl, my girl, crazy girl, the only
fucking girl. Filthy, dirty, sweat, cum, what the fuck ever, splice the wires from her brain down that tummy to her cunt,
smash the plunger detonating her into an orgasm that rocks her world, over and over and over again until she finally, once
and for all, begs a man for forgiveness of what she is. For finally, she’s gone too far in a journey that never had
too fars, and baby doll has finally arrived. Thank you fat Buddha head, I'd give you
a blow job if I could, last words from the whore’s mouth just before she passes out.
Fuck, she knows pain. Look at all the bobbleheads she’s lopped
off: men heads, girly-girl heads, ’cause they thought they could boogie down with her, jive the jive, do the tumble,
do the dick-cunt dance. But what, they fucking disappointed her, broke her heart,
made her wish for a gang rape, ’cause why, ’cause they didn't know what to do with a goddamn sex goddess wearing
white angel wings when they finally got their hands on the bitch.
Fuck them, ten ways to Sunday, for how can they recognize sexual
wonder, sexual splendor, a demented angel with a soul made of gold and peacock feathers gracing as eyebrows and scales and
fins and legs? And how many fucking times does she have to beg to get hammered,
break out the pool cue, to get fucked like the demonic princess she is, how many times? Well, for fucking forever, that’s
how many times and all of that shit makes her sad.
That's why she’s pissed, has an attitude, has a memory, ’cause
she can out- fuck every one of the posers and they know it, and she knows it, and I know it, and fuck, the world knows it. So break out the dildo, electric motor time, it’s all she’s got left.
So what? This ocean girl,
this head-trip girl, this acid-trip girl, this devil girl, this angel girl, this friend girl, this demented and honest girl.
Fuck, man, I love this girl. That’s why I went down to my knees, popped
the white rock and begged her to marry me. The sweetheart bitch said, “YES.”
by j brooke
I had died once, but still I appeared to be
alive, much like a dead star, a solar corpse, lost within the blackness of the mass void of Taurus, the child Aries, the Virgin
queen Virgo, glimmering to earth, appearing to be alive, but so long dead of life, just appearing to be of breath to those
that might take a chance glance to the stars. A goddess appeared from the grief and pain that was my life. She was a secular,
solitary, seeking female that knew no greed, nor want, did not understand a selfish thought, and she took me to her home,
and offered me love and protection I had never known. I was a charlatan, stranger, but that did not matter to her, no, for
her heart, her great heart saw in me a man of lies, a pretender of life, yet she forgave me for the man I once was. Thus,
she gave me a bed of white sheets, warmth, food and love, and she did it because she held not a selfish thought in her gifted
and gentle mind. She had loved me unconditionally on a rumor, a mystic idea that I was worth saving, and only I knew the lie,
that I was never worth saving, until she had, and then I was.
There was a lunar eclipse, a slivered moon,
and bathed in moonlight and down she whispered to me that she was a woman of dreams, and her dreams were elusive as my life
had been to me. We talked within the night-light of new and many things, a glow I saw came directly from her soul filled me
with kindness, and gentleness. I was a soldier once, and I had seen death’s smile, inhaled the essence of the rotting
and bloated corpses of the genocide in Africa and I felt those memories were the final words of an epitaph chiseled into my
I was a white paper whore until she saw me,
understood me, realized that what I did, the woven and tangled words I created, might be the answer to her dreams, my dreams.
After an odd lifetime of delusion, I saw clarity, as did she, and we realized that our destinies had been crocheted into one
mind, one heart, one vision, and we became one as lovers, searchers, partners we never had, all woven along a single tapestry,
Man has always been a mistake, for the Peacock
surely is more beautiful, the Dolphin more elegant, The Cheetah faster, the great Elephant more powerful, the King Lion more
stately and then what is to become of man, unless a woman finds his heart and soul and mind and holds it in the down of her
She is a gay woman, filled with laughter, smiles
and pain, and of course I see every nuance of who she is, sometimes pretends to be, and I love her for her greatness, her
generosity and especially her fragility, and her way with me, a lost vacuous vagabond that never had a home, was never safe,
was never nurtured, until she choose to love me, an enigma that only a dreamer could ever comprehend.
We are at the beginning of our journey, my sister,
friend, lover and I, a mad man and a serene, savant female that is the rudder of our ship, and I will drain my blood for her.
I will peel my skin, the chameleon skin I have forever lived with for her, as she will give me every ounce of her passion
so we might see together, through the fog and the trawler clouds of our lives, finally the golden sun we both know has forever
been a wayward child, bare feet, moss and rivulets of running water, running, wandering just at the tip of our fingertips.
I dream now, not of sorrow or pain or the burnt
flowers that I have always known, for she, my dearest, gave me that gift: the gift of hope and life and to see the dream,
filled no longer with my screams, and she has become the cerebral axis of my life and her name if you must know it is the
earth child, the cloud mistress, a star gatherer or more simply said, she is my friend, my benefactor, my blood, a simple
name, she is, my wife.
She was a stone-cold stunner, a paradoxical creature
of violence, nut brown, tall, thin, no tits, boy hips, a mahogany shoelace stood on end, a small head, and a massive neuron
count all Vogued-out with those green Pisces eyes, “fragged” out in
silk skin, covering blood and bone. She was one of those deep impact bitches, so fucking exotic, beautiful, you know, step
off a plane in Cannes, no money, no clothes, zilch, a tricked-out twist, then gold bangles on her wrists, diamonds, caviar,
vodka-silver screams, Benzes, Beamers, Côte d'Azur, rides in motor boats.
had opted out of the bling, had other things on her twisted mind. She was an enigma, Columbiana, wrong time, wrong place,
it was as if God had, in one of His trick moods, almost as if a failed abortion, had strung her out, jettisoned her, created
her, into what, what, a violent and injured child, that was what. She had become an oracle of bad news, and none of it was
any damn good.
Blood soaked nineties had arrived, The Colombian Government, maxed
out, fucked up, pushing blood out of its dying corpse like a neck wound, no more resources, no way back, no hope, a fucking
monster had come, Pablo Escobar. A massive paramilitary, Medellin Cartel, power provocateurs, cocaine, money, ware houses
of it, bitches, whores, guns, lots of guns, C-4, Centex, oxidized body parts, street tombs, cop jackets, vermin, thugs, death
squads, car bombs, a war, a war Colombia knew they could not win, nor ever win.
Desperate times, black nights, blood running in the
streets, the odor of cordite, they needed it stopped, drug terrorists, terrorizing the weak, hook up, turned to the Shadow
World of the USA military, CIA, DEA, super covert Delta Force, NSA, for help.
The US cowboy-ed up, the posse arrived, ghosts,
maniacs, berserk zealots, Bible in one hand, knife, gun, axe in the other. “The war on Drugs” fighting the last
war, changes were needed. A new American policy was implemented, let’s rage, and they did, their new fetus “Target
Assassination.” Cool name, juke and jive, would be the final nail in a long over-due casket lid for Pablo Escobar.
CIA, DEA, backed up by thugs, the Delta Force Rangers, prowled
the skies, night stalkers, vampire bats, thus, “Centra Spike” was born.
Linguists, spooks, state of the art radios, telemetry eavesdropping devices, electronic wizardry, tricked out, triangulation
and high frequency radios, probing, seeking and destroying. A paramilitary outfit: covert, plainclothes police, soldiers,
grooved with anonymity, murdering anyone, wives, children, lawyers, bankers, everything else remotely associated with “The
Medellin Cartel.” Cats, dogs, goldfish: they killed them, too.
Primeval ooze of war, evolution, piano wire garrotes, nail gunned nurturing,
torture, blowtorches, bolt cutters, lost finger digits, dicks, balls. Men talked, screamed, gave up their mothers, died, no
mercy, no survivors, kill them all, more Darwin and, then another odd creature materialized.
IS HER STORY.
The driver was a dangerous man, a violent man, 9-Millimeter
Glock slotted in his waistband, eyes agitated, mouth tics, for he felt fear, not for himself, but for the girl in the back
seat of the black Mercedes.
She sat silent, tinted windows, black Mercedes on the prowl, down
the stylish Avenue Calle, upscale Poblado section of the city, Medellin. Thoughts, test patterns, lots of them, trying to
suss it all out, who, when, what was she? The usual suspects, nada, praying, no more God, no more dreams, try to forget it
all, can’t, a tattoo, blood tines stitched into her eighteen-year- old mind, heart. She was fucked, everyone knew it
She was known as Niña, “The Child”: exquisite, graceful,
ocular, beautiful, fragile, remarkable. She gave the appearance of a delicate young girl, yet Niña was not her name.
Back of the Benz, peering out of the tinted bullet proof window,
pretty neon, boutiques, shops as well as dead bodies bloated, left as garbage in the alleyways. A hundred meters, glistening
lights, the grand whore, The Hotel Intercontinental, it was her destination for the evening. Dangerous men were waiting, circling
sharks, protectors of one man, an important man. He wore “The white hat;” she was about to fuck him. He waited;
he never waited, but for her, he did.
As always, it sickened her, this trick, he was grotesque, so was
she, whatever. Prostitution was her thing, no other choice, ply it as she always had, play it out, maybe a handgun tip in
her mouth. Later, arterial spray on the walls in the morning.
She fought vomiting, kick in the stomach, as the driver: shaved
head, black leather coat, her protection, fondling the Glock, jacked into the driveway, parked.
Two men, black men, ferret bright, Tec Nines, locked, loaded, ready,
open door, they see her, relax, recognition, knowing who she was, why she was there. Exchanged glances as she whispered in
an educated soft Spanish dialect. “Sit Carlos, I shall return soon.”
She wore white—no
virgin, this angel—skintight skirt, cut high, way high, clinging silk blouse, slender arms, wide shoulders, strident
collarbones, nothing like her now or ever before. Three-inch stiletto heels, calf muscles exposed, long legs appear even longer,
guards’ eyes like blood rivets on her torso. Draped over her wrist: an expensive, black leather valise. Both men ignored
Blink, blink, blink, her white smile blinding, perfect, they wanted
to fuck her, not now, maybe one day, chew yourself through the corpse maze of the Cartel, dreams, men have them, why not,
everything is possible when a man has a gun.
Nods, grins came, returned and, then many holas, Niña, megaton girl smile in return. In the door, business at hand, Manolo heels click, click, click across
the stylish lobby of the Hotel.
The Hotel InterContinental’s foyer was stylish. Stares, leers,
gawks, as she moved to the bank of elevators at the far wall of the lobby. Once there, she paused before a burly man, traditional
black leather coat, scarred face, shaved head, hand under his jacket, skin like his coat, black like being buried alive.
Face was covered by old scars, broad African nose, he looked
as if it had been broken by some other loco hombre’s fist. He was mute,
bloodshot eyes, backed by cocaine, alcohol yellow. He leered at the whore as she stood before him.
estas?” He growled in street Spanish, jerked his head
at the valise on her wrist.
No hesitation, she smiled, unsnapped the hinge, opened it, tilted
it at him, waited. His breath reeked of bad rum and cigarettes; she didn’t mind.
Diligently, he nudged his thick fingers inside, checked out various
implements of sexual trade: lingerie, odd pieces of clothing, a large black dildo, which embarrassed him. He was a man of
honor, Hispanic. She smiled again, he wanted to kill her, maybe later.
Swallowing his shame, he dropped the dildo in the valise,
pressed a button on the wall. “Ca-ching” the door opened as he growled,
Smiling, he had called her a whore, no problema, she was. Into
the elevator, door closed, his hand into his black leather jacket, past his .45, found a small walkie-talkie, growled to someone
high above that the whore was on her way. Later, a hit of coke, rum, lots of rum, some street bitch. Life was perfect for
he was a man of respect.
The elevator whizzed, whined, moved up towards the top floor of the hotel, eyes cemented shut, pulse flatlining, mind
a mercury switch, ready to click to life. Moments gone, time moved, eyes opened, stared as if in a trance, reflection, wall
mirror, images, of who? The creature, who is it, now staring back at her, she had no clue.
Life ravaged, shredded, everyone dead now, last survivor, no lifeboat, dead heart, soul, and now, what? Disgusting
act, practice makes perfect, a semen shower, vile was good, it felt natural to her. She needed it, wanted it, it was something
she now knew she was destined to do. Peddle a girl’s ass, soon the mind and soul follow, whatever.
Time passed, quickly, she supposed, yet it was really something she was never able to control. Elevator, ring-a-ling-ding,
jerked off, it was, what it was. Play it, dress up, pretend, little girls love pretend, games, white pearls, no memory of
ever being a little girl left, so the fuck what? Life ain’t perfect; deal with it.
Out-a-the elevator, at the end of the corridor
were two more bodyguards, black leather coats, slabs of beef, standing vigil to her client’s room. They looked like
a casting call for a Tijuana firing squad.
First look, the two men tensed, then seeing her,
a beautiful swatch of teak silk strolling towards them, they relaxed, postured, grabbed their balls, their theeng, machismo, men from south of a burning border.
Low on the totem pole of such delights, they were
the legions, bodyguards for one of Pablo Escobar’s most important lawyers, Bernard Munoz, a jefe the whore
had fucked before. Seduction, smiles, that walk, all of it, an important tool of her trade. She glanced at their handguns,
silencers pinched on the barrels, smiled more, that always worked before, purred, “Hola
gigantes, Senor Bernard listo?”
The men, posing, loving being referred to as “giants,”
shot back grins, spoke to her as if they adored her, assured her that Senor Bernard
was indeed ready. They opened the door, almost drooled as she click-clacked into the room.
Door closed, she hesitated, for in the foyer was another brown
man: dire, hard, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, red tie, holding a pistol with a silencer stitched to the barrel. She
stalled, as the obviously powerful man rippled toward her, looked her up and down, then at her valise. “Open it,”
he seethed in Spanish.
Her heart began to pound, his bullet eyes seemed to rape through and into her brain.
Rummaging around the contents, he swallowed in disgust at the sight
of the dildo. Boss had a proclivity for depravity, young girls, prostitutes, as he pushed around a pair of black boots, other
garments and, then roughly shoved the valise back into her hands.
“Go, puta. He
waits,” he said, wishing he could kill the whore, as well as the deviant waiting for her in the bedroom.
Coy, little girl sweet smiles, she took her valise, walked to the
door, hesitated, did the twist, stared at the silenced nine-millimeter, inventory time.
the room, she stalled, peered around at its opulence.
Nudged against a massive bulletproof window, a view of the dying
glimmering city behind it, was a massive bed. Next to the bed was a silver tureen on chrome legs, nice touch, a bottle of
fine champagne, Crystal, chilling in ice within it.
The suite was decadent: green suede couches, loungers; stylish
art decorated the walls, no Tijuana velvet paintings anywhere. On an English oak desk lay stacks of money, rubber bands, mostly
Benjamins, a laptop computer, various pens, pencils, papers, leather valises, a gold lighter, a can of hair spray, brush,
comb, and a chrome-colored .44 Colt Python. Americans, they made them right.
Taking inventory of everything while the shower ran, she smiled
as a joyous voice filtered out of the bathroom off to her left. “Una momento,
Niña,” the happy voice said.
She dropped her bag, snapped it open, leered at its contents, dreamed
for a ticktock of time, turned, wandered to the expansive window, gazed at the beautiful city lights down below. Girls like
pretty light, police sirens, she wondered how many innocent civilians were being shot, bombed, and shoved into wood chippers
Hearing the shower stop, she turned, and there he was: horribly
obese, short man, dyed-black hair, paste-white skin, big gut, hiding his dick, walking from the shower naked, towel in his
pudgy hands, drying his dyed hair as he did.
Smiling, the lawyer walked over to her, leaned in, Don Juan now,
kissed her on the cheek, backed away a half step, allowed his fingers to trail down her porcelain face, her small breasts.
Money buys gold slag, penthouse suites, cars, a dick in an angel’s ass, he was one happy guy.
His lips were thick, bulbous, his eyes small, she thought, like
rats. Folds of skin dropped over his lascivious eyes; he was a walking, breathing pig, so what?
Strutting, standing still, he said in Spanish, “My Niña,
you are lovelier then ever before. So childlike. So beautiful. A blonde, tonight. I approve. I am truly blessed.”
Lowering her eyes like some Asian courtesan, she lifted them, touched
his sweating face and, then whispered, “Senor Bernard, you honor me. It
is I who am the lucky girl tonight. Thank you.”
Drinking in her impossible elegance, beauty, fragility, he smirked,
smiled as the light glinted off several of his gold teeth. “No, Niña, it is I who am honored.”
Kissing her on the lips tenderly, he lit up, snapped his fingers,
turned to the bottle of bubbly iced in the tureen.
“Where are my manners? Champagne, darling, for an angel.”
He was her daddy, he liked it like that. Old men, vampire hearts.
She pouted, smiled sweetly, nodded in approval to his wonderful suggestion. She’d drink a glass of piss if he had asked
Showtime, daddy’s surprises for his little senorita, erection
poking from under the folds of his enormous belly; he could still get it up, barely. He felt playful, sexual, winked at her,
turned to the champagne, scrutinized it, looked back at her and, then began to unlock the wire mesh from around the cork.
In Italy, he would have been a made man, but he
wasn’t. He was though the most important lawyer of one of the most powerful drug cartel corporations the world had ever
Humming to himself, rat eyes taking a peek, she
was unbelievable, thoughts of love, back to business, poured champagne, crystal flutes, Tony Montana stuff.
She slipped off her high heels, allowed her skirt
to billow to the floor, then her body shirt, she stood before him naked, her back to him.
Barely able to control himself, he kept peek-a-booing
at her, marveled how God could have placed such a delicate creature on his earth, one he felt he owned.
As he struggled to control his shaking hands, the
ones holding the tulip glasses, she casually edged a half step to the desk, looked at the various implements on it, ignored
the .44, took two objects from it, then turned just feet away from him, her muscled and slender back facing him.
Sexual wiring spark plugging, stared at her so
thin, perfect body.
God, Niña . . . My. . . My . . . God. Are you ready now, my angel?”
passed, her body hummed, she was silent, remembered everything, every instant of her life. She whispered, “Yes, Senor Bernard, I am ready.”
He smiled, perfect world, perfect girl. And at
that moment, as she had been trained, she turned, a different girl now: odd eyes, black bee-bees, and with a fury and hatred
unmatched by any creature on earth, she swung her muscled arm out, lifted the can of hair spray, ignited the lighter, and
exploded the flames into his mouth.
Suspended times, smoke, flames, lawyer’s gawking eyes,
his naked angel standing before him, a look on her face he had never seen before. No stutter steps in her eyes, his lips,
tongue, mouth melting like dripping plastic. She smiled as the fire and heat stifled the screams he tried to force from his
After his nose melted, she smiled, dropped the
hair spray to the floor. His brain, still functioning, he gawked at her odd smile, and with smoke pouring from his mouth and
nostrils, he tried to scream again.
Instantly, she moved to him, she could see through
the smoke that his brain was still working, for his eyes were stark naked, mad in pain and terror. Placing her lips to his
ear she whispered, “My name is Pilar. You murdered my family and now I have murdered you.”
Knowing no Angels of Death named Pilar, his eyes
jerked off, he tried to say something, vocal cords incinerated, parts of his brain were wasted, gone bye-bye by the pain that
serrated that piece of filth. As his body crumbled, Pilar guided him to the bed, laid his twitching body on the sheets, watched
now as his central nervous system flamed out.
Eyes closed, happy girl, efficient girl, humming
girl, she stood motionless. Then she opened her eyes again to stare at the pile of suet on the bed: his body pulsing, his
melted lips trying to say something, yet failing, for though he was not dead yet, his brain, like cheap wiring in a Coney
Island tenement flop, was still lit.
Moving to the bed, she pulled the sheet and duvets
back, stuffed his legs and torso under them and placed the sheets and blankets just so under his obese jowls, right under
She stripped off the blonde wig, untied her black
hair, and allowed it to fall down her back. Quickly, she tied her hair into a convenient knot, moved to her valise, opened
it, reached in, and relieved the black plastic dildo from it.
Scrutinizing it, she smiled, quickly unscrewed
the tip, withdrew a six-inch ice pick, more like a stiletto, from it.
Turning, she walked over to the man who had smoke
stacking out of his mouth and nostrils, bent, crawled upon him, pinched his melted cheeks between her fingers, lowered her
flawless face and stared into his dilating pupils. She thought she saw some life in his eyes.
Smiling at him, she took the ice pick, inserted
it into his eye socket and, then slowly, filled with pay back, pushed the blade past his eyeball and into his brain until
he twitched once. His body bucked, then it stopped, and she supposed that he was dead.
Still naked, for she used every weapon at her disposal,
she gathered her senses, calmed, lowered her pulse, crawled off the dead attorney, and barefoot—she had such tiny feet—she
moved to the bedroom door.
Ice pick firmly in her hand—girls liked presents—she
placed it along the small of her back, opened the door, and stood naked before the bodyguard.
Hard hombre, disciplined soldier, every man has
a moment of weakness for a real sweetheart, found it hard to resist such a beautiful, naked girl; after all, he was human.
Fragile, available, alluring, smiling at the huge man, she purred in lovely Spanish, “He wants you.”
Like a Jap Geisha, she blushed as he scrutinized
her, fondling the 9-millimeter with the silencer in his hand as he did. Nodding, completely disarmed by the naked whore, he
must have thought for a moment his boss was going to share the puta with him.
Looks of desire, the handgun dangling along his side, he walked past her into the bedroom.
Acrid smell, smoke, what the fuck, fucking on his
mind, he hesitated, staring at the boss resting under the sheets.
His nostrils flared from the acrid odor and smoke.
Nothing smells like burning flesh, and his brow crinkled as without hesitation, Pilar/Niña moved behind him, placed her hand
along his forehead, which for a moment, for he was still fantasizing fucking her, he thought was a term of endearment.
Strengthening her grip like she’d learned
from her Delta Force Ranger buddies, she placed the ice pick just above his spinal cord, and slowly shoved it into his brain.
Surprise, surprise, no pretty ribbon on this gift,
he tensed, his eyes flicked everywhere, Kinko time, she held him strong, whispered into his ear so he could hear one last
thing before he flatlined. “I am Pilar, not a whore.”
He slumped, and she guided him silently to the
floor. Quickly, she moved to the door and closed it.
Looks: calm, serene, totally deranged. Dead bodyguard
on the floor, pool of blood, she took his nine millimeter, gave the silencer a tug. She popped the clip out, saw it was full
of friends, rammed it back in, chambered a bullet into the slot.
Turning, she skipped to the lawyer still breathing,
twitching on the bed. Crawling on top of him, she straddled him, placed her forefinger and thumb on his cheeks, leveled his
eyes to hers.
Whether he could fathom what was happening to him,
she neither cared nor knew. Placing the silencer in his mouth, she saw some movement in his agitated eyes. Umm, so something is going on in there, she thought.
Enjoying herself far too much, she realized she
was on the clock, smiled into the lawyer’s eyes, thought she saw a tick of recognition, raised her eyebrows in curiosity,
pulled the trigger, and the gun went, “Psssst.” Red, like paint, the fat man’s brains and blood exploded
against the white cotton pillow.
Pursing her lips, humming, brow crinkled, stark
raving loco, yet in control, she crawled off the lawyer, gun buck, two in the chest, moved naked to the bodyguard, shot him
in the forehead—always plan ahead—and she had to scoot.
Adrenaline streaming away, she sat on the green suede couch,
pulled out a pair of black trousers, slipped them on, added a black T-shirt, a pair of white socks. On her small feet, she laced up a pair of heavy black boots.
Spent, like a used cartridge shell, she placed
her face in her hands, begun to hum, something that always allowed her to calm and focus. After a moment of humming, inventory
again. She moved to the desk, took the forty-four, spun the cylinder, saw it was loaded, and deciding just in case—because
a girl never knew when she would need more star power—she laced it along her back into her waistband.
She moved back to her valise, grabbed it, and returned
to the desk. She emptied the valise onto the floor, and because she was a Loyalist, she packed the bag with the stacks of
hundreds, the laptop, and various documents.
In the pile of sex props, she found what she was
looking for, and walked back to the dead man on the bed. With extreme prejudice she placed the sign on the man’s bullet-ridden
chest. It simply read: LOS PEPES.
On autopilot, eye tics around the room: no one
left to kill. She decided there were no more men to murder, picked up her valise,
turned and walked from the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
At the blue door, entrance to the room, she hesitated,
trying to calm her racing mind. Silenced pistol braced against her back, she whispered, "uno,
dos, tres." She opened the door and now an onyx-haired beauty, she whispered sweetly to the two remaining body guards,
“Hola, Gigantes. Senor Tyson. Queren
Ustedes, por favor.”
Loving her to death, they both smiled at her playful
way, and thinking nothing of her hair or clothes change, for they had seen other versions of her, they entered the room, hesitated
for a moment, turned to their princess, asked.
Nodding at the bedroom, she smiled; the men smiled
back, began to walk towards the closed door.
No blink, pulse like a canary’s heartbeat,
she lifted the silenced automatic, it went Pssst twice as she drilled both men
in the backs of their skulls, a single bullet for each.
Dead before they hit the floor, both had forgotten
the oldest lesson in the whore handbook: “Never trust a fucking whore, no matter how fucking sweet she is.”
Hardly giving the men a glance, through the door
she cruised, carefully peeked down in the direction of the elevator banks, saw nothing, turned right and made her way down
Moving to the fire stairs, she opened the door,
entered, and like the athlete she once was, took three steps at a time until she was on the ground floor of the Hotel. Covered
with sweat, she opened the heavy fire door, peeked out into the night, edged outside.
Carlos stood in the dark alley next to the Benz.
He held a .45 caliber handgun, silenced, he saw her, finally breathed as he saw her. Pilar walked up to him, looked up into
his eyes. As their gaze locked, she whispered, “It is done.”
Words dripped from her full lips, no more power
or strength, spent like the copper shell caps back at the room, she began to slump, adrenaline sucked out, completely exhausted.
Carlos wrapped his powerful arms around her waist, enough garbage in her life, no alley filth now, she was done, at least
for the moment.
She trembled. As he had done before, he felt respect
and pride that he knew her, but as always, pity and love, pure and simple. That she was incapable of loving anyone or anything
any longer, was legendary, and broke the hearts of hardened men. He held her, she pushed away from him, handed him both guns—she
seldom gave gifts, no one to give them too—simply bowed her head, whispered, “So tired, Just so tired. Please,
can we not go?”
Nodding, Carlos opened the Benz’s back door.
She moved into the back seat, slumped, eyes closed, thinking whatever assassins think when they are done with a night’s
Carlos slapped his gun into his shoulder holster, black leather
jacket furrowing in the wind. He opened the front door, slid in, peeked at his silent passenger in his rearview mirror. With
bile in his throat, spike in his heart, ignited the Benz, slotted it in drive and drove off down the alley.
The cleaners would take care of the refuse, mops, buckets,
hacksaws, no worry, no looking back. He found Avenue Calle, began to cruise down the festively-lit street.
She had been a privileged
child from a wealthy military and political family. At twelve she had been a gymnast, a swimmer. She’d studied the piano,
languages, music, culture, and her life at one moment had held such promise.
First, her father: a judge, a man of bravery; ethics;
and morals, had been incinerated by a car bomb directly in front of her grand house near the beautiful area of the El Tesero District.
She had heard his screams and saw him literally
burned alive. At fourteen, she lost her beloved uncle, Louie Galand, a Presidential candidate, from the bullets of several
of Pablo Escobar’s assassins. After that, two cousins and another uncle had been brutally murdered in the Avianca Jet
blast, along a burning mountaintop. Her mother and sister were murdered, as well as so many other innocents entombed along
a mountainside outside of Medellin.
Strangled with grief, she went insane, showed up
within the jungle camps of “The Colombian National Army” and their lethal offshoot, “Search Block.”
It was not uncommon for females—fierce, crazed
loyalists—to be within this cadre of soldiers trying to wrench their country back from the violence of the Medellin
Cartel. Yet, what was she? So beautiful, so apparently frail, yet still so young, barely fifteen and from such a prominent
family, she was searching, what for? Revenge, of course, at all costs. Beginnings . . . where does a girl start, go? An orphan? Get a gun, learn, understand, become a savage.
At first, deception, illusion—what did she want?—and
confused by her beauty, physical elegance—they were men after all, men who still judged beauty by definable standards—they
didn’t get her.
But there were dudes that got it, got her, dug
her vibe, and it had taken the resourceful men from the CIA and Delta Force to see just how valuable she might be. Under the
wings of their knowledge, tutelage, they processed her, a new product, into a new and unique education. She was perfect for
Black Opts and they knew it.
It would be a remarkable journey—she was
raw clay, malleable, eager to please—that would make her many things, especially a cold-blooded killer.
The Delta Force guys adored her, respected her and, then feared
her. They beat her, pushed her, prodded her beyond all borders of human endurance, she gritting her bloody teeth through all
“Is that all you have?” she asked. More, she always
wanted fucking more.
The trainers dug her groove and besides knife,
poison, gun, coat hangers, and of course something as common as a can of hair spray, taught her how to kill with everything
imaginable and in every way possible. A gift from heaven.
Great future for her, everyone agreed, “Black
Covert Ops,” a night stalker, octopus suckers vacuuming in information, a very disturbed young woman, perfect, they
liked them that way. Whisked her off to Langley, summer camp for her: disassemble an AK-47, blindfolded; pressure car seat
cavity bombs; Ricin- tipped stilettos; poisons; bullets; knives; hands; hatchets; tennis racquets; electronic gizmos; computers,
all of it. Camp counselors were awed; they gave her a merit badge.
The Agency became part of her young life as a new
prom dress is to other girls of her age. She graduated; no prom, no pimple-faced kid with a corsage for her wrist. Her graduation
present: a cheap, gold-plated locket with a cyanide tablet in it, just in case, just because sometimes bad shit happened.
Ready, Betty to go, zoom-zoom-zoom, ready to climb
the dead body ladder of success, two years more with “The Agency,” moving in and out of places such as Serbia,
Lebanon, Damascus, Bogota, cities in The Middle East. Dark skin, black obsidian eyes, she could pass in those cultures, that’s
where the bad guys were
Then, time to abort, go rogue, a night finally
came, she packed her various documents, passports, and toys. She turned the key in her lock, moving now from her world into
another. Vanishing would be simple, and it was, no one ever missed her when she was gone, no one was ever glad to see her
when she arrived. When she did visit, standard last question out of man’s mouth was “Am I dead?”
Magic trick, no face on the milk carton, people
don’t mourn when a hoodlum vanishes. Then swoosh, gone into an ecosystem of criminals, intrigue, death, special talents
(Few had them). For almost the next decade, she would be paid generously, as
well as appreciated so very much by men who understood such unique talents.
Then, the assassin was gone, not knowing that ten
years later, she would fall in love with another cold-blooded female killer named Mandal.
“Everybody needs somebody to love them.”
Old Blue Eyes sang that. Fucking go figure.
|Art by L. A. Barlow © 2017
Bloodbath in a Vegas Firestorm
ONE more fucking cigarette in
an eternal white filtered head trip of tobacco surreal dreams that is what I
am. A genius ex glamour girl, a gay girl, my IQ is frightening, hovering around 160, real
cyber link interfaced brain politics, Stephen Hawking like. The gimp psycho cerebral
wanderer is my idol as well as violence, my hero, and pain, as much as I can
get it whenever I can get it.
My brain is either-furious or
weeping, happy or irate, stoned down, or amped up and
I revel in the ghetto life. My moniker is Jane and what kind of glam girl game name is
that? A penny for your thought's, lets rock baby, I am so fucking ready, bring on the rain?
Graduated from a platinum spoon UV, Dartmouth,
MBA at 26, Wharton, business freaks and hit man killers rumbling on Wall
Street. You know Bond Traders raping pension funds from pensioners, widows and orphans
eating baby food. Retirees in plaid pants, cringing along golf course tombs, preconceived
death squad communities, just before they die, wasted away data banks of rotting trash,
battle field earth, a golf ball and par their last pathetic living annuities before they
Now me, I'm 28, once a bi-sexual ginger girl, switcherooed,
some time ago, only girls now, it was in my DNA, I have light white scars on my
white face. I like to rumble with the boys, pretty girls to. I use my beauty as
a tool, what great looking girl doesn’t, I'm just being honest. I never took
what I was born with seriously, beauty is so destructive, so evil, so shallow,
vapid. I can’t take responsibility for my look’s, just use them like I use my
guns, knives and steel toed boots to get the job done, here in degenerate Vegas.
Put me in a wheel chair in front of my computer
with a pencil in my mouth, that’s what would make me complete.
I choose Vegas as my sex-capture the bad guys
patrol, for I am cognizant, know exactly what I want, who I am. I by choice became a hard
edged backhoe of the trash of this human garbage disposal city. One might call me a PI,
a bounty hunter, I work for pay, but that’s just how fucking Hollywood depicts it.
Because I'm smart and have all the bells and whistles, I decided to opt for fun, danger,
so that’s why I got my PI license, my gun license too. Work for the casinos; find
runaways, bail jumpers, sometimes sneak around catching cheating lovers. You know the whole
litany of sordid stuff people do when they cross over the edge.
Many of my true friends are cops, love cops, where
would we be without them.
I opted for the hard life, pimps,
whores, degenerates, gamblers, bail jumpers, wife beaters, dog fuckers;
kids stuffed in to the micro waves, drunks, junkies, strippers, perverts, pedophiles, priests
and bent dolphin trainers, all with a price on their heads. Though money means
nothing to me, I'm a thrill girl, a violent girl, a genius girl.
I'm an anemic thug, twine thin, purged in the
toilet once, vomit blues, no longer though, 5-10, 118, blonde, razor sharp, close to my
scalp, blue eyes, game over, small face, sharp chin, ripped up and full lips, my hormones
are boiling inside of my like chicken soup.
I’m a whippet street fighter,
blond hair cut butch short, leather because I am very aware of the roll
I'm in, image baby, cut arms, long and lean. We live in a society that cherishes the emptiness
of beauty. For me it’s all about who you are, what is in your heart and soul,
brains turn me on. Again, I have no ego about my looks, they just are, they
mean nothing to me.
I have a coupla black belts in
Tai Kwando, Judo, Kaaaaa-raaate, choices you see. I'm hard core, tough, sweet,
any bad boy, wayward girl wants to fuck with me they better bring their A game. It has
to be real for me, no bullshit, just honesty
let's crack it, let’s get real. I’m a lucky
bitch, my society parents were vaporized in a car accident over there near the South Hamptons.
Their death shattered me, but made me realize how fragile love is.
After, I became a mistress of about fifteen or
so million bucks. I got these Merle Lynch vampires making me rich day by day and I had
to choose, a life of hanging along the cat walk during Fashion Week, watching misplaced
bulimic train wrecks, waltzing down the Cosmo world, eating disorders old and young, or
choosing this brutal life, of bullets, hand cuffs, kicked down doors and a criminal world.
It was a no brainer for me, because I was born a silver slut, it’s in my DNA.
I’m not selfish and I really do care, and have
a soul. Most of the interest from my money, about a million bucks a year goes
to Doctors with out Borders, The World Wild Life Fund, and those valiant
Hebrews at Green Peace. Save the animals, wipe out the human’s that is what I would
do if it were up to me.
“Click, click, click”,
I'm loading my Old School 357 Smith & Wesson Python Magnum, cause that's the
kind of girl I am. Don't like progress or new stuff, so that’s why I opted for a
six in the chamber, hollow point hand gun and girl pouts, kisses drenched and wet, craven,
lethal, I'm a dreamer, a stylist, a hopeless romantic. I like the feel of
copper and lead between my finger tips, as I like some girls tongue stuffed
between my pouting bitch guava lips.
I slot the iron whore into my
Velcro shoulder holster, it feels good. I hear Bono
in my IPod, U-2 is just the best. I check my twelve-gauge Mossberg, over and under, its
loaded, lead pellets, red cartridges, copper caps, fuck the Swiss make great scatter guns.
I can be ruthless, manic, cranked,
connived of stumbled truth at times, weep every time I see Breakfast at
Tiffany’s, as I make sure my gun license is in my sleeveless black leather vest.
I make sure my black savage leather hip hop baby crushers are layered tight along my narrow
hips. Plopping my Boston Socks ball cap on my head, into roll play now I
whisper, lets stroll as I purr, I am so demur, I’m ready to create pure and
I'm looking for a bad girl named
Tina Flicks, a muscled criminal, of Boston trash, migrated to Vegas, dangerous,
vile, ultra butch, a real piece of twisted, violent work. She's a sweetheart heart breaker
of 3 dimensional murder, pushing dope, a hard biker chic and seek and destroy
car jacks, whores and girls of a last resort. She's just a blip, a 6ft,1,
muscled, bout 175 lbs, filthy blond, tattooed, homicidal chic, sexy in that
street crew way.
I'm such a thug as I take two
steps by three's down the stairs. I live on the top
floor of a Chinese laundry, real film noir PI stuff, all by choice of course, image remember.
Great digs, it's really an artist’s loft conversion I built myself of grief stricken
N. Vegas, It's a bad part of town, and
I'm street wise as I slide into my 59, 308 V-8 Buick car, turquoise and white, tail
fins and big chrome bumpers, leather seats, I love this ride.
I check my extra 38 stitched inside the glove
box; slap my hands onto the big round Plexiglas steering wheel, smile and, then twist the
key. The Richard Petty carbs fire up and then the rumbling Detroit engine of real steel
and iron and an American dream of ex real freedom rumbles in a throaty purr, she's my RPM
machine. She was made in a time when a gal could cruise across a nation that still had
a heart, wasn't run by computers, a time when a girl could be a free bird.
It was a time when smoke belching out twin
chrome pipes meant prosperity. It was a bullet-hole moment in time when the USA
was an amazing nation. Was no political correct corporate palace of a tripped out
country that has lost it cool as it is now from K-Street lobbyists. I dawn my black leather
knee coat, pet my handgun, I am ready to drive, which in this lovely machine it is, real
It's time to get down to business.
Serious is serious, Tina Flicks has killed some
men, some girls too so goes her cop jacket, she is dangerous and I have to be
smart. As I cruise down Las Vegas Blvd in my old convertible Buick the summer
wind feels good on my pale skin, chattering along my buzz cut, making me happy
that I am alive, so I began to laugh.
"Wake up Maggie, I think I'm
falling in love with you." Old School Rod Stewart is ripping an octave from his
soul, meandering down the wires from my Apple music machine, into my elfin ears. I
kick a work boot on the dash, slink a little, time for a cigarette. So I slap a
Marlboro between my lips, flick my chrome Zippo, fire it up, inhale and like
I've seen in all of those movies, I mentioned I'm into Image, let it pearl out
of the holes in my Christy Turlington nose.
I'm heading for the "Bent Club"
N. Vegas, tough turf, graffiti, paint and blood on the
stucco walls, Hispanic men of respect, MS-13's out of Managua City, black bangers, Asians
motor cycle gangs run down here. Even the cops try to avoid it, not me, I love it. None
of those folks at the "Bent", no not there, it's a private club. It has
a completely different clientele, odd and strange and wonderful, if anything is
left wonderful in this twisted and depraved city.
It's also a Blood Bar, people
reserving dark corners, drinking each others blood,
everybody has their thing. I don't judge, though it's not something I participate in. It's
one of those rare places where nobody ever makes judgment on me for sucking down some young
show girls cum, live and let live, that’s what I say. What happens at the club, like
Vegas says, "stays at the club" including your semen, blood and your life
if your not careful. You better be reborn hard to hang there or some dude or
gal will skull fuck you dead.
The Bent Club is filled with
queers, dykes, bi-sexual youngin's, freaks, transvestites, murderers, thieves,
dopers, druggies, queen doctors, sissy lawyers, and dominatrix’s, submissive and
girly men. There are straight power player violent men, society women hitting on
young, stupid platinum body strippers, goofers, stick up guys, and girls like
me, though there is only one of me. It is where I'm hoping to hook up Tina
Flicks. Once she jumped bail, well the sex there, and the smell of sex there, well
she is a hard girl after all, her nick name is Tina “Dildo” Flicks, in her
belt, all the time, like a car tie rod, the girls at least say. The bouncer there, a mountain
black dude named Mike, who I layer from time to time a C-note, whistled up my cell phone,
telling me she's been hangin' there, and I love that place. It's one of the few places
on the planet I feel at home in.
I park the
whale, tilt my head, check my face in the mirror, I'm
so vain. I wear no make up, don't need any, ruffle my short cut, smile, teeth white as
chalk, eyebrows feint. I feel pretty, what a messed up human being I am. Yet a girl likes
to look good just before homicide, or fucking, or what ever, maybe a good beating, if she’s
lucky. They got guys and gals at The Bent that excel in such things.
I never know what mood will travel down my spine
and "a go for the gusto kinda a slut girl" I feel kinda excited, cunt beginning to sewer
I walk down the alley, see Mike at the door,
smack a hundred in his catcher’s mitt of a paw, and get a Kong sexy handsome
smile from him, a kiss on the cheek in return. He's so huge, 6ft 6, I feel like
a noodle just anywhere near him. Man, I can't help but wonder about his
magnificent dick, that will have to wait for another night, a better night, I am a curious
kinda girl, would even opt for Mike, just to you know, see what that was all about.
Through the iron door I go.
One A.M. just beginning to fire
up, quite an elegant place, Private Club, I think I
mentioned that. No tourists here, just regulars, kids tired from pumping up the casinos
with their life blood. The place is decked out in all leather, rich woods, chrome and smoked
glass, amazing crystal hanging from the bar racks, back blue lit neon bar, best of
everything here. It's a respite for the loco loyalist locals, love this place,
Lots a black Vegas Cops hang
here, super duper well styled out in kick back money Armani suits, check their
badges and Glocks and attitudes with Glenda at the coat check cubicle, I do the same. Layering
off my black trench, my shoulder holster, handgun, I slip them to Glenda. She
doesn’t blink, nothing fazes her, what can, she’s seen it all.
She's a Goth Girl, white skin, black
everywhere, mascara, tattoos, arms, breasts, neck, stomach, inside her cunt I
imagine. She's topless, black mini skirt, gold rings in her nose, ears,
nipples, studs driven into her forehead, she loves me, whispers of fucking me,
eating me, were tangoing around that idea. I stuff a hundred into her hip hugging waist
band. She kisses me, smiles, two diamonds are inlaid into her teeth, she’s so young,
so Betty Boop stunning, I almost forget why I'm here. I nudge my memory, remember, wink
at her, later for that sweet little sugar cube. I turn and walk into the neon club.
I make sure my hip huggers are low, just above my
lasered cunt, every girl likes a little attention. I'm looking good, skin tight
black crew, bare arms, my black heavy stitched work boots on my small feet. I
have gold hoops on my ears, a thin gold chain with a gold cross falling down my flat
chest. I don't believe in God but I love the Latina image of it all.
No Tattoos, avoided that, though I would have
dug the needle tine of pain. Just sorta of lolly lagging around as I look to my
left, a small dark room, people in the shadows, a private place, that’s where
the blood suckers are, nice people. I don't go there, doesn’t give me the creeps
though, everybody needs somebody to love them, Sinatra crooned that. I have all of his
CD's, I have eclectic tastes in music.
Its early, the booths have a
few debutants sitting around. Well dressed women flirting with semi clad, semi
naked vixens constructed of perfect young skin, pouting lips and nothing between the ears.
Everybody is drinking champagne in flutes, martinis in crystal dishes with long
stems, smoking pot, Xing, coking, smiling and laughing as the con is going
down, bargains of cunts and dicks being auctioned off to the highest bidder.
Lots a rich looking older men, expensive suits, hanging with gay boys decked in leather,
road bump abs. Their like the hunnies, perfect bodies, nothing in their brains, the kinda
sweet kids older men adore, pay for, fuck in the ass and then jettison in the morning before
they return back home to the burbs and the wife and 3 kids waiting for them at their suburban
The parquet dance floor is semi jumping,
Ludicrous on the speakers. A stump of a butch dyke, maybe 250 lbs, crew cut,
Donna Karen black suit, black tie ups, white shirt and red tie, very stylish,
holding a skinny brunette semi naked play toy, maybe 20 or so. The sweetie pie
is tatted, pierced from head to toe, naked except a green g-sting, really a postage
stamp covering her shaved cunt. No body has hair below their eyebrows anymore, including
me, I like that.
The young twist has those small baby
girl tits dykes love, tats everywhere, a Chinese dragon stenciled down her arms, Japanese
calligraphy on her stomach and breasts, three inch stiletto heels, towering
over her Lesbos protector. The girls are in love, love is a wonderful thing.
As I sidle over to the classic bar,
I lean in. Sparse crowd, check out two 18 year old strippers, silicone tits, blonds from
a bottle, perfect hard bodies, gym rats I suppose, dancers from the Spearmint
Rhino or one of her cousins I suppose, pressed against each other, swaying to the
bongo drums, kissing, more love at The Bent. It's always that way. Imagine
their runaways, find always, incest survivors, uneducated temporary bleeders of
beauty, until that runs it gamut, then slashers of hash at Denny’s. It's usually
like that, unless an overdose kicks in, and peace finds their once golden bods, putting
them out of their misery finally, once and forever. There completely naked, except for
gold rings stabbed into nipples, ears, noses, belly buttons, cunt lips, studs in pink tongues.
There slender white frags of skin fabric, high heels on the dance floor, two bull dykes
at the bar checking them out, respectful though, it’s a respectful type of place.
Two politicos, older men, graying temples, well
dressed, gold and expensive togs, are dancing with two leather clad boys. Bare
chests, muscles on muscles, slow dancing, mind dancing, kissing, holding, money
buys everything in Vegas, love, sex, an old mans dick in some young studs ass, or the
other way around. Sex and love dispels denial, makes people happy, as well as miserable.
I see no misery with the boys, girls and men and women here. I just see honesty, happiness,
lots a lip playing, eye dancing, lies whispered, promises broken and kept. Of course all
that is usually jettisoned within the first motel curtain piercing of the morning sun.
Stitched along the black smoked glass and
chrome bar are the usual suspects of decadence and mirth. Semi nude girls, lots
a stiletto heels, piercings, their all bullet proof, leather clad boys too, a few
older men, and I'm getting whispers from two dykes, decked out in men’s threads.
I like the attention, for like I said I’m an ego driven glamour girl. I smile, then
Jerry, my buddy bartender slopes over, asking me how I am. I purr that I'm cool and how
are you? He winks, tells me he's all good, a Grey Goose up easy I say, no olive would be
fine. He winks, turns, racks a stem on the bar top, gets busy mixing up my silver dream.
I feel it now, that wet tinkle, tinkle in my cunt, the buzz starting to over come me, which
means either sex or violence will soon begin.
My moon beam
vodka scream is delivered. I smile, sip as Jimmy turns,
flirts down the bar and chats it up with two naked waifish blonds, as my eyes roam everywhere
around the stylish haunt. Everyone is having a good time as moments pass and I am ready
to drop the dime.
An hour passes one martini, two,
kids and whores and hitters boogying on the dance floor. Then through the door Tina
Flicks noodles in the club, built like a 6ft 1 car cylinder of iron, black
leather coat, white t-shirt, no make up, dirty blond pony tail, she’s a kinda
pretty broad, black jeans, she looks like a VEE, rock abs, set above Levi hip
She's got those gym small hips,
muscles rippling through her black tank top shirt, sharp cheek bones, about 35, blue,
hard cool eyes, WOW; I'm a lucky slutty frivolous and serious gal. She looks,
like she could be lots a fun. I don’t know her all up close and personal and
such, but I, got her pic right next to my leather wallet with my PI card in my
jacket pocketetes. I giggle thinking how Gollum asked Bilbo. "What’s the
nasty Hobbit's gots in its pocketeses." My brain works that way; I wish I could just
give it a rest. I look at Tina Flicks winding across the club, moving towards me. I am
kinda like a human sex magnet for dykes. She doesn’t know me, but I am excited that
she soon will.
I lean against the bar, both elbow’s
welded against it, work boots planted to the floor at the end of my mile long legs,
stretched out long and lean, that’s what I am, I laugh, a tall drink of water
born of acid rain. I'm sipping my martini and counting the ceiling tiles, a
little aloof. She walks up, peeks at my face, smiles; my she's a handsome boy.
She doesn’t know it yet, but she's mine, whenever and how ever I choose the
moment to take her down.
I smile back, that always works.
She edges in, clicks a nod a Jerry, who sidles down the bar, gang shakes
her iron fist as they chat it up. On her hip is a leather scabbard, and there IT is, a
foot long dildo, and that baby is thick, I begin to dream. I listen to her street chat
to Jerry, you know, yeah, all is good, how about you man. Tina Flicks nods,
assures him shit couldn't be better, orders what ever the blond doll is having
next to her and one for her.
She smiles at me, slips off a
hundred dollar bill from a folded bevy of them, flicks it on the bar making
sure I've seen her big money roll. I raise my white eyebrows, pretending to be impressed.
Finishing my Grey Goose, I thank her and then the mating dance begins.
"Where ya from Doll, ai'nt seen ya here
before" you know the usual crap from a street player. I have to admit she's damn
good looking, weathered face, some eye brow scars, all of it oozing sex appeal in that
street raw filth way and as far as boiler hoods goes, she's a sharp kid, I assume a panic
under the sheets. I can smell the violence exuding from her skin. She offers me a smoke,
I accept, and then slow like, I like the effect, pour it between my full lips, pout a little,
end her life with my blue eyes.
her lighter to flame. I inhale, let the smoke all woozy
and so drift across my face. Perfect effect, I'm waiting for her dick to explode out of
her Levi pants. Every time she speaks I giggle or laugh, or nod and purr. I'm an actress,
a player like her, as I giggle like a school girl at some nonsense she babbles, you know
to impress me, crap she says, to make me want to fuck her. I touch a lot, her muscled arm,
then her face. You know, coy teasing stuff bimbos see Brittany do on MTV as my IQ engulfs
her limited brain matter. She's so easy I almost start to laugh, at nothing at all.
Blah, Blah, Blah, back and forth
we go. I doubt she's ever read a book; I'm really not interested at the moment in her
I.Q. My adrenalines burning off the Vodka as fast as I consume it. My eyes and brain are
focusing, for though this is fun, I am a pro and know exactly how dangerous
this Tina Flicks is. This is not a time to get confused sex thoughts rampaging
through my brain, though my eyes are pin balling all around that huge dildo
strapped to her hip. So, I know, we both know, or she thinks she knows what is going
down here. So, we mate standing there, as I lean in, grab a swatch of her Blond thick hair,
kiss her lips real soft like, back away, almost go Mae West on her, you know. "Why don't
you come up and see me sometime big girl". I almost giggle, there's that brain again.
But I don't
as her hand moves between my legs, I don't complain.
I'm hoping I'm not leaking through my leather pants. I know I'm wet, I can't help myself,
been some time since a Genie Girl has rubbed this lamp. Then a new plan short circuits
my mind. I lean in and whisper that maybe we should hit the road, and see what happens.
You know, cunt girl meets cock girl, wrapped in skin and dildos and pussies anywhere but
She offer's me a little coke, I decline,
say maybe later mister man, I have other things on my mind. She nods, says she’s
got to scoot, you know doll, just a little pick me up, a bathroom toot, be
right back. I smile, squeeze her knee, she grins, turns and walks across the
dance floor towards the rest room.
Perfect. I flip a c-note on the
bar, smoke a kiss towards Jerry at the end of the bar.
He winks and flies an air kiss back to me, perfect again. Now, I can get to Glenda, maybe
kiss or two, get my coat and concealed handgun before stud fella returns.
Glenda is looking good, real good and I almost
strike a time of girl romance later, but remember business is at hand, as I
feel my magnum pressed against my ribs, very edgy and dangerous stuff. So I sharpen
up for here come’s Tina Flicks. She’s licking her lips, grinding her jaw from
the coke, man I can see that she's totally amped up from the spook look in those azure
dilated eyes. I smile as she gleams her black leather jacket from Glenda, pushes a twenty
into her tattooed hand, she looks a little jealous. I wrap my arm around her waist as if
it always belonged there and before you know it were out the door, hoping Glenda understands.
I exchange cautious see ya laters with Mike at
the door. He knows me and what I'm all about, I see caution in his eyes, no
matter. I slip him another hundred dollar bill, get a "be careful little girl" from
his eyes. Turning with my stud fella, I walk down the alley, just for a little bit.
I seldom mix business with pleasure, but I'm
really feeling it. Like I said, I haven’t been laid in dog years, so as we walk
through the filth of the alley, we reach another off shoot of a dumpster world.
I pull her in to the semi darkness, under the single light bulb struck into the
mortar of the bricks.
Slamming her against the red squares
of the alley wall, I crush into her, feel her dildo pressed against my cunt, she’s
quick, it’s now conveniently strapped around her hips. My, I was right, that is
a huge one, lucky me. I stitch my fingers into her blond shock of hair, rip her
head back and drive my lips into hers as well as my tongue down her throat.
Her pincher vice hands are slapped against
my tiny no ass, as we detonate kisses, grinding bods together, tearing at each
other, sucking down each others saliva like two dogs in heat. Me, being the
bitch pooch that I am, I need fucking so bad, I forget for a sec what I am
doing and where I am.
This bad ass never heard of Viagra,
tee hee, she’s built like an iron coffin. Street toughs are like
that, girl testosterone replaces blood in their brains. She could fuck all day and all
night no matter where she was, no matter what she was doing, probably while eating breakfast
at IHOP, or even sleeping. Man, she's strung hard and tight.
I'm heated up, decide to mix it up. You know,
business and girl pleasure, any mistakes I make getting off, well I can fix those later,
I hope. So I drop to my knees, frantically wrap my thin fingers around her silicone dick,
huge, thick, the girl whispers were right. I’m crazed, an actress, Emmy later, pretend
to suck her off, you know just to get her amped up and me to get in the mood.
She’s got both cable hands around the back of
my head. My cheeks are expanding, I have a small mouth as I plunge my mouth
over her dick, lips expanding, cheeks puffing, eyes watering, feeling the tip
of her pretend dick banging against my tonsils as I roam up and down her foot long cock.
I’m enjoying myself, never doubted that I would.
I'm hoping she has a smidgen
of reality in that good looking skull, and then cause
she's a rough boy, she tightens her grip on my short blond hair, then rams her cock down
my throat. Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle, as her hips whip out and in, each time that huge knob
going PAALUMP as it smacks down my throat and I don't want her to stop, for I still need
fucking, badly. So I stand, grab her hair with one hand, smack her against the bricks,
hold her cock in the other. I can multi task, and then smash my lips against
Were not really kissing, more
like lip and tongue’s smacking down, as we chew at each other like were
both red meat and were caged lions in that Zoo over in N. Las Vegas. The one where they
got those frustrated big fucking cats pacing back and forth on edge, ready to eat some
poor mother fucker who turns his eyes away from them for a sec.
She does not like being controlled, especially
by some skinny pencil of a bitch blond. She's a control dude; I like that, as then she
violently twists me around and slams me against the wall, my cheek and forehead violently
banging the bricks. I boohoo and get weepy for real, for I like rough play, and she is
my man, and I’m usually the fella, but just for pretend being the girly girl for
the evening. I like the way she handles thin me as my breathing sweeps out of my lungs.
I'm so turned on and needing it, I feel hot liquids splashing down the inside of my thighs,
my cunt is ready and so am I.
My white unpolished fingernails
scratch against the bricks, my back arches as I plant
my heavy work boots on the alley concrete floor. I want to be ready, I want to be solid,
I'm ready to mate with this turbo charged kid, grind us both into dust and she's not gentle.
I didn't expect that she would be, as she rips the snap of my leather hip pants, slashes
them down along my knees and still she hasn't focused on anything above my hips. That's
good as I wave my tiny butt at her like the cute girl that I am, groan and moan
for real. I don't want her just yet to know I am a girl with a gun.
I tweak a peek over my shoulder, see her jeans
are spooling around her cowboy boots, they all wear them, though there isn't a fucking
horse anywhere near Vegas for lot's a klicks. Then I feel the massive knob of his dildo
at the lips of my cunt, her arm, like one a those geared "Come along's" you know those
wire thingys truck drivers use to secure their flat bed loads is coiled around my naked
tiny tummy. She smashes her thingy into me, not slow like, but violent like, as far as
it can go, even farther. WOW, she's everything that I ever heard she was.
SWOOSH, a gust of air whacks out of my lungs, that
banger she carries is bigger than I thought, but I can handle it. I feel the
pain, gulp for air, moan like a bitch, feel more pain, Christ's it’s huge, it’s
every thing I ever wanted, for this moment that is. She begins to cylinder my
like a fucking jack hammer, me going haywire, moaning, ooohing and awing, groaning,
using profanities. You know like, shit, fuck, oh baby, come on, fuck you, come on, don't
stop, don't ever stop.
My back bends, my butt tilts up,
I whip my head back and forth and then scream as I orgasm and then orgasm again. I rip
at the brick with my hands, trying to claw my way through the wall, as suddenly I feel
something pooling in my boots. I can't be that wet, can I? Expecting her to
stop, she does not. I remember the crank she snorted in The Bent. I know my luck
has held, as she kicks it up a notch.
My entire little 118 flails and
shakes, whips back and forth as she pounds me relentlessly
for fuck of a long time. I'm hoping my little head isn't going to revolve right off of
my neck. I scream, grind my teeth, bite my lips, everything is a blur as again I feel fissures
of orgasm slit my cunt. But then, she whispers that I am a bitch, how does she
know. She's into it now, as she vacuums out of me, finds the entrance to my
rectum, teases the knob against my asshole, as I gulp, smile and coo to myself,
OK, why deny myself anything at this moment.
To make a long story short, and
not going into the gory details, she sodomized me for
those dog years I was jabbering about. Swoosh,
Swoosh, my breath explodes. I'm groaning, moaning, breathe bellowing, she's holding
me hard, way hard. There will be lovely bruises tomorrow.
Finally, I throw my head back as I feel a ripping
orgasm. I go rigid, throw my arms into the air, and then go limp, bend at the waist, my
fingers touching the filthy alley floor. I sort of blacked out, and can only remember my
forehead banging against my shins, you know, “Boing, Boing, Boing.”
I guess she used some kind of ESP, don’t know,
and I guess finally got tired or bored, don’t know.
I'm a smart
girl, so I stand remembering that just because she paid
me once that doesn't mean she doesn’t have to pay me twice. I giggle thinking about
She has her palms on her knees. Somewhere
in the fracas she managed to get her jeans back on, so I stand straight, wet my
forefinger tip, and you know, do one of those eyebrow straightening gigs, still
wanting to look casual, look pretty, for I am me. I want to make sure she knows
how lucky she has been, especially after the bad stuff goes down.
she stands. I imagine she doesn't want anything else
to do with me, for she, as I am sure as is usually the case for her, gotten just what she
wanted, gotten off, yet she is smiling at me. I'm hoping she's not one of the romantics
that wants to take me to Denny’s and have breakfast after they fuck the light out
of your cunt, igniting your eyes.
I chit chat
her up a little. She seems relaxed, and wants to see
if we can maybe hang some, and have an encore at her place later. I pout, smile, I'm a
sweet bird, and I say just one more thing baby. I take her hands, press them against her
back, then lean in and kiss her softly on her beautiful lips. My hand snakes under my coat.
I withdraw my short snout 357, raise it, back away and then press it into her mouth, a
very different look in my eyes now, as well as his.
know if it's more sex play, or I'm something else. I
whisper that she's under arrest, that’s what I do, as I dig in my jacket pocket,
get the arrest warrant, hold it close to her bulging eyes, just above the black iron tit
pressed into her denying mouth.
She's not happy. I'm sure she
thinks this is a joke. I promise her it's not, and if she does not fuck up,
I won't have to hurt her. "Click" my thump chambers back the hammer, as her eyes dance
around my forefinger exerting pressure on the trigger mechanism.
I could of cuffed her, but where is the fun in
that? I'm pretty sure she wants to make some move on me, which besides all of the sex
play, is exactly what I want.
After the fucking, the sucking,
like a great olive topping off a great martini, violence fixes me, primes
me, satiates me, and satisfies me, what ever. Now her blues are ticking to my greens, the
cocked hammer, the pressure on the trigger, my greens, my dripping cunt, the smell of
the oil I use to clean my magnum. Because I'm a big brain, and she’s a little
brain, I read her, and know exactly what she wants and how she sees it going
Never in my blue life would I
be so close, but I of course want to test it, all of it, so I smile, Christ
I'm just a slender girl, how can she loose. So I let her slap the magnum, and I go Oooops,
geeeze. My hand purposely swings wide and I drop the black iron on the pavement, wide
eyed now, as she leers at me, sadistic payback in her smiling eyes.
She knows, and I know that she really, really
wants it slow now, lots a hurt, lots a pain, lots a madness for me. The way she is leering
at me, smiling at me, tasting the blood from where my hand gun cut her gums, that it is
in her mind and it is going to be fucking beautiful what she is now going to do to me.
I am so thin, cute really, I am wondering if that is her thinking? Maybe she is considering
murdering me as she fucks me, this time violently rapes me. You know a grocery store plastic
bag ground along my head as she hammers me with her play dick. She has a limited IQ, and
I almost laugh watching the thought ball bearings revolve around her head.
One second, two second, three potatoes three.
She lunges at me, which in a street fight is a
no no, and because I know exactly what I am doing and what I have been trained to do and
can feel the pressure of my white bunched fists, I do a little bunny hop to the left. Then,
with as much violence that I can conger, and that’s a lot, I explode my heavy work
boot into her knee.
“Pop, Crack, Poppity-pop.”
A sickening sound echo's through the
canyon of the alley. You know, when you’re the delivery girl of a well aimed kick,
there goes the cartilage as she screams, twists around and because I'm a thorough girl,
I swing my leg around in a Karate kick, screaming my boot along her cheek, mouth and teeth.
Bang, or something like that pops through the
night. Her beautiful white teeth tumble on the felt like dice at a craps table,
geeze I liked those pearly whites. Falling to her hands and knees, she's moaning,
bleeding, swearing, wheezing, and then because she’s a tough character, she lunges
out, grabs my legs, all most chewing at my feet.
Because I am a Judo Master, I
bend, smile, want to kiss the blood from her mouth.
I twirl her wrist; bend a little at the knees, then snap back, breaking her wrist away
from her hand as she screams, a defeated girl. I never thought it would ever be any other
She's pinned, but I'm a smart gal, so I
release, and with full force stint back, and then kick her in the gut with my
steel toe boot. SWOOOSH, grief and woe, she falls to the alley floor. I kinda
feel sorry, remembering the good time that she gave me.
I remember that rumor was is
that she murdered two 16 year old runaways.
But heck, it's just a job, as I reach in my
jacket pocket, find my chrome bracelets, slap the cuffs on her wrists, reach
over and slap my magnum back into its cage, stand, think of other things.
It's really a pretty night, so I dig a smoke
out, do one of those flip things, lucky tonight, my lips catch it in mid air. I
spark my Zippo, light it up, inhale, Christ all Mighty, I love life, this life,
I think of Glenda at the check
booth stand and Mike at the door, and kinda excited I'm wondering which one tonight I
might choose. Lots o adrenaline still, you know a tryst here and there. I'm never
just happy, contented, I'm so railed up I'm ready for more, bingo, whamo, I am
such a little whore.
Lets see, 2 AM, get Tina back
to Hank at the bail bond place, fire up the whale, buy some cherry Chap Stick,
just love Katy Perry, return to The Bent and see if Glenda is ready to go.
Just fucking perfect.
j brooke is a writer with
over 100 credits, and never lists them. It's simple for j, for it’s never what you
have already written, but what you are going to write next. Contact info: firstname.lastname@example.org