Rock the Earth
Ray Vaughn knows, what you ask, that women are fucking troubled twists and just
no damn good. Flap those bat wing lids, Lo La, Lo Lo Lo La la Lo la, right man,
I promise my dick won’t flop, sit right here on my lap, my love, like a
whirling dervish candy cane spinning top. Lie to me, promise me, beg me, fuck
you, I am not buying that game no more. Why, because I want to wake up in the
morning and find I still got a set of chrome ball bearings between my weak fuck
legs. Retract that statement. I just seen your eyes, connected to your demonic
angel face, and I'm a fucking goner.
will die for you, live for you, chew my arm off for you, just to touch those
sweet damn lips, with my lips. Whiskey bottle, ashtrays dying with dead butts,
Absinthe, L’illusion verte, green
smoke from the white flake, late nights, ten in the clip-hand gun, cribs set on
fire, a Kansas wheat thresher fighting a forest fire of demons. Loaded blues,
sick and elated, delirium tremors, vomiting on the curb. Why, baby, do you rock
my fucking world?
that ass, hook it up, roller derby in those three-inch heels, rove and dance
and twirl around this garbage dump I call a home. Roam, rake it in, you’re a
damaged slut, a ruthless rock starved I-Pod-power-Player kid. Raised on acid
rock, The Jersey Shore and MTV, sucking off the football team, and now you’re
zeroed in on me. So you want to be a rock and roll star, and a sweet
mademoiselle, why hit me up? I'm a last-ditch artist running with the shit of
the earth. I saw you in that micro skirt, day glow green tank top, drooping
eyes, beehive, heels, cheap shoes, raccoon eyes, all the sex bells and
whistles, a tight bod that can rock the Wurlitzer world.
let’s go there, feeling kinda good tonight. Right buzz, right choice, right
bling, cool high, let’s fly. Lets get down, maybe hip hop dance, hop all
around, oooh baby, stoned, rule, so cool. Maybe we can score a gram of the
white dream, boil it up, bubbles on a silver spoon, white powder percolating in
the last ditch moments before we nod out, right after we forget to fuck. Is
that what you want? Is that what you need? Is my blood, soul, brain and heart
enough to satiate your ego-driven self-absorbed needs? Hop hip-hippity hop over
here, set that small ass right down here.
Buick gassed, chrome grill, top down, engine tuned, let’s take a little drive
down highway 40, see what’s at the end of that honeypot of a gold cunt you have
attached between those sweating, long legs. We'll find Vegas, gamble, get stoned,
get high, I got the suite, I got all the drugs and paraphernalia we will ever
need, right there, in the trunk. Summer night, I can’t take my eyes off of your
flaxen hair, billowing out past the Buick's retro tail fins. Here, take a toke
of this. Sip here, sweet doll, at the J Walker Black, with those go-go girl
lips. That should tide us over until we hit Sin City, get down, get crazy,
wild, hit on the strippers, party like its 1974, go all in, and then, begin the
madness spiral downhill into sex, and finally get into the important things.
they are, see that neon on a needle point, those glimmering lights, on the tip
of the world, she’s waiting for us baby, Vegas. Man are we going to tear it up,
probably barely get out alive, have some fun, and in the end if our bodies and
brains fry, at least we went out like bizarro savages just before we die.
Banshee shrieks, wails, fucking each other until our eyes melt, burning alive
in one another’s arms, sweat, saliva, semen and your hair drenched like rusted
chains, falling down that face, ring a ding, ring a ding ling, do ya hear the
bell, round one doll in screams of flaming flames, bodies burning, getting
ready for our retro rocket entry into the depths of a hook-up hell.
Cool, huh? You ready,
sweetie pie? I know I am. Let’s rock, throw it down, no time like now. So,
let’s roll, my sweet-tasting and ever so
delicious baby doll?
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.
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.
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,
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
Tears, so 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
his heart, place my ear to the medals he will never see, as I vaporize and
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
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.
Scandalous for the Doll
by j brooke
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.
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,
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.
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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 headstone.
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, called love.
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 gentleness.
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.
by j brooke
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.
She 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
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
THIS IS HER
The driver was a dangerous man, a
violent man, 9-Millimeter Glock slotted in his waistband, eyes agitated, mouth
ticks, 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 but her.
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, Tech
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
and educated soft Spanish dialect. “Sit Carlos, I shall return soon.”
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 it.
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.
“¿Que estas?” He growled in street
Spanish, jerked his head at the valise on
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, “Pasale, puta.”
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,
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
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.
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.
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.
Inside 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 .45 Smith
& Wesson 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 this night.
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
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 her to.
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 known.
Humming to himself, rat eyes taking a peek, she was unbelievable,
thoughts of love, back to business, poured champagne, crystal flutes, Tony
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 .45, 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
“My God, Niña . . . My. .
. My . . . God. Are you ready now, my angel?”
Moments passed, her body
hummed, she was silent, remembered everything, every instant of her life. She
whispered, “Yes, Senor Bernard, I am
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,
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 throat.
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 his chinny-chin-chin.
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
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
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
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
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
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-five, popped the clip, 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
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
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
“A Donde, Niña?”
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
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 the hall.
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
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 work.
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.
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
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,
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
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 of it.
“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
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; Rican- 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.
needs somebody to
love them.” Old Blue Eyes sang that. Fucking go figure.
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?
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 go.
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.
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.
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”, 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
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 blues.
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 driving.
to get down to business.
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.
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.
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 up.
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.
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
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.
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 cribs.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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
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, 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 here.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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 that.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
two second, three potatoes three.
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.
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.
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 way.
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.
that rumor was is that she murdered
two 16 year old runaways.
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.
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.
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.
Gun Buck Before
Absinthe struck life, fucking Vegas, gun buck before dawn, another night
boogying on the dark side, my side, jimmy the casket lid open, crack an amyl
nitrite cap, drag the corpse of night out of the coffin, slap it on the floor,
see what this twisted morning brings.
Vegas hot, it’s always fucking hot, like flames fluming out of the tip of a
Jane, PI here, have this NWA (Niggers With Attitude) RAP mix mastering in my
head, all morning, you know, degenerate, stunning, violent, down with the
truth, I guess that cop jackets me, I’m not going to fib about it. Most of the
bent deviants in hard N. Vegas know me, well in the demonic dark side of Vegas
a blonde, carbon dated, misplaced in a modern world, twisted demur demon, with
the preverbal whore’s heart of gold. I’m queer, love girl’s lips, skin, cunts,
blah, blah, blah.
been a fashion model, but I detest beauty from birth. Beauty is a prison cell.
You deserve no privilege ‘cause you were born beautiful. You don’t earn that
booby prize, because you’ve done fucking nothing to deserve it. I work hard on
my brain, my feelings, my emotions and try to be cognizant that I am lucky and
most people aren’t.
chose to be a Vegas PI/Bounty Hunter; a super-duper-sweeper-up of the human
offal that populates N. Vegas. I love my two rescue pups, my two gold fish
Stella and Stanley, menagerie of kittens, and my .44 Colt Defender as well as
my 16-gauge Mossberg shotgun and the smell of gun powder after I take care of bidness
slapping bad people in jail.
Harry had a .44, no mistakes with that baby.
to move, get that skinny frag body moving, a cup of Joe, maybe a smoke, work to
be done, great night, great time, violence, sex, a beat down, the usual
trifecta of glee that makes me phat. Stop bitch moaning, time to move.
a great day, I’m very excited, my Guns and Ammo magazine comes today. I’m a
girl with a gun, lots of guns, can’t wait for tonight, I’m going to clean my .308,
over and under Remington carbine.
jacket, just to remind those that have forgotten my MO, gay, 5-10, 120, on a
bad day, love thin, body dysmorphic disorder, among a host of nut-so mental
illnesses. Nobody is perfect, don’t pretend to be. Love the image, alter boy
hips, no tits, chain-sawed white hair, cripple, cripple greens, don’t do drugs,
can’t afford to.
get a girl a one-way ticket to “Palooka Ville.”
like one a those cluster-fuck Quasars rumbling around in deep space, damn,
Einstein is dead, the good ones die, we all die, no one gets out alive. And what
replaced a genius, those jag-offs Kardashians. Like fucking vampires, those
fuckers are going to live forever.
ain’t fair; no one ever said it was.
Back to last night, beautiful, The Bent Club, N Vegas, and it was the usual
wonder world, my world. I had a marvy time, doing my Styx around the stilettos,
piercings, blood drinkers, rich-doctor gay men, bi-women, etc., looking for the
usual suspects, some perfect girl or boy giving them a smile for an evening. It’s
a shooter, slammer, “E” and melon ball world, then in the end, the Casino kids,
after burning out, catch the next bus back to Kansas and never, never, never go
back to Vegas again, for that terrifying berg could scare the white offa Count
had a contract from Hank at the bail bond place, me being a PI/bounty hunter
and all. Hank always hangs me with the hard stuff ‘cause I’m a street-smart
chameleon, gotta be street-smart, choices you see. I love to mix it up, love to
test myself, combat, hand to hand, steel toed boots, always wear them. I’m an
illusion, black belts Judo, Karate, I usually win the night. I need them all,
just like last night, when I took down that real hard dyke named Tina (Dildo)
Flicks, at The Bent, of course.
go into detail, but it was a blast, and fulfilled most of my “Special Needs”
for the night. You know, the truck-axle felon had a dildo like a dick of one of
those Cape mother fucking Wilder Beasts, like you see over there in Botswana on
the Nat Geo show. Before I beat hell outta her, cuffed her, she hammered the
moonlight outta my cunt out in the alley, very welcomed. I thought I would need
a liver transplant afterwards. I like it rough, wild, maniacal, she fit the
always keep the takedowns fair, meaning I use my combat skills like other girls
apply their lip gloss. I’m like that stud Tom Hardy in the amazing flick “The
never see you coming, do they Tom?”
me, they never see me coming.
of course, kind of got off kicking shit out of the Flix kid, it was mano e
mano, a fair fight, always is, could of gotten killed, never asked her to break
gotta pay the VIG; gosh, every gambler knows that.
may a fucked my tonsils to oat meal, but I didn’t owe her nada, and come on,
she was a criminal, a murderer and I was just sucking up the lint, that’s what
I do. I’m sorta a violent white angel keeping the balance in this hell.
I coulda given her a TOE TAG, but I didn’t, see I really am a sweet girl.
I dropped the kid off at Hank’s at the bail bond place over there in Henderson.
Hank was grateful, glad to see me, most of the dudes are. All the hunters think
I’m a crazy doll, a pretty gal, like that, what girl doesn’t like a compliment.
my 35 Gees, nice payday, though I don’t do it for the dough re me, but I like
being a pro, appreciated. Later I will off load the cash at the Vegas Homeless
Shelter, cool guy there, Father Bob, buy lots a cup a soups, maybe some
Saltines, I hope. Hard times, bad times for a lot a folks, especially after
Wall Street butt fucked them, stealing many of those good folks money, lives,
futures in that fucking Sub Prime Mortgage grift, which fortunately my millions
never went anywhere near.
parents died, car accident, shattered me, left me millions, I try to do good
with it when I can.
to say, my adrenaline was pumping testosterone, way out of whack, like one a
those Top Fuel rail cars over there at the San Berdoo race track. You know,
those super duper, Ether sucking muscle car machines, with fire belching out of
their ass holes as some maniac pushes the envelope at 400 MPH down the track,
hoping the chute opens, so he doesn’t become a human deep fried pretzel if it
had the top down on my beloved 59 turquoise, white custom tricked out Buick,
loving the summer wind on my blond mop. Loved how the wind whistled past her
tail fins, slouching on my tuck & roll seats I got done in Tijuana, I-pod
cranked, boot on the dash, smoking, always smoke after sex, or violence, or
getting my ass kicked, which are all and the same thing.
plugged in to my elfin ears, every thing is tiny about me, but my big brain,
music ripping it up. “Trina” rapping, me singing along.
love that bitch, un-manicured fingers tapping on the big Plexiglas steering
wheel. Once, Detroit made them right, feeling ALL OF THAT in my black leather
hip huggers, smoking, fucking life, perfect.
over err, that’s my attitude, still the baddest bitch in the game, that’s my
attitude, talk to ya man wen I get ready, that’s my attitude, have him blowing
stacks, ain peti, that’s my attitude (yea) and I feel like im the shit, that’s
my attitude (yea) that’s my attitude, that’s my attitude, I feel like I run
this shit, that’s my attitude.”
Trina is the bump, she’s all dat, strong, positive, she’s my fucking girl,
ghetto, love all of it. There are many different versions of me, not all good,
but what the heckeroo. I’m always trying to be a better girl, what ever.
had finally found The Bent, parked, gave big black Mike at the door a cheek
kiss, a c note; gave him two like their cousin uncle Benjamin earlier. He
appreciated my classic style, got that huge smile, he is one sweet black man,
entered, and wrangled up Glenda the coat check girl. I needed more, fuck I can
be insatiable, go figure, and after all I did promise Glenda some girl action
later, that’s how I roll.
scooped her up like the white cream cup cake that she is, held hands like BGFE,
and we vacuumed out of the place, I always keep my promises. I’m the fella for
the night. I can do the switcheroo, be passive at times, but not tonight, she
being all girly Goth and all and so fucking young, so I am mister man for the
evening. I can do that.
drove, summer char in the air, she sat nice and close, Goth head on my
shoulder, as I threw down some “Sade” “mood music”, smiled as the wind kissed
her multiple tattoos, piercing, first dates are fun, we fit nice. Thought about
buying the princess a chocolate malt, naw, Glenda is even thinner than me. So
we whizzed back to my massive artist’s loft, the one stitched over Chang’s
Chinese laundry. Fuck I love that movie China Town, “Jake, come on, it’s just
China Town” and then we got down to girl stuff, the important stuff.
Glenda there, white washed on my sheets, a white dollop of whip crème, raccoon
eye make up, black hair like night, not a hair on her bod below her forehead, a
lot like me.
she’s stunning, a real bullet proof baby doll. I love her tattoos, Chinese dragons,
the way they swirl down both arms, wrap around her back, all connected to that
Japanese Calligraphy needle pointed into her small back, blending into that tiny
butt. She’s got enough hardware pierced into her bod, ears, tongue, nose,
nipples, belly button, clit, those little eye bolts in her forehead, enough
chrome to open an Ace Hardware, and they’re sexy for now. But wait, ten years
will whistle by.
ya whistle, Nick?”
she will be serving the breakfast special at I-Hop, wondering what the fuck she
was ever thinking about. Kids, they never think past the moment, go figure.
spanked a hit of “E”, offered me some, I declined, respectfully, but didn’t
mind, don’t do drugs, love reality, can’t afford not to. It kicked in, and then
we were two naked girls, she burning, you know “E”, love everywhere, senses
expanded, touchy feely. I could a been a bent backed Burundi Gorilla, didn’t
matter, man I can still taste our first kiss, feel that little stud on her pink
tongue, kissing my tongue. Like I said I’m insatiable, though my insides ache,
hurt big time from the lynch fucking the Flicks kid had administered to me in
the alley earlier.
like pain, need pain, part of my cerebral makeup, don’t know why, lots a people
do. Black and blue welts for some girls, dinner, box of popcorn, a movie for
others, don’t ever judge, can’t afford that either.
guess I needed some TLC, and Glenda was perfect, soft, sweet, wild and velvet
skin, lots a kissing, touching, and I needed that. I am a girl after all, and glad,
real glad she was enthusiastic, a bit frantic. You know when you’re a kid on
Christmas Eve and you’ve been watching those presents for weeks under the tree.
Bingo, its Xmas morning, and there’s the pop gun and I was feeling beautiful,
for I was the present she had wanted to open up for a very long time.
was a real muncher, me on my back, breath break dancing out of my swollen lips,
blood flow spilling down my blue blood veins, tummy swelling, hitting my spine,
her finger nails, black paint like her mascara, on my thighs, me groaning,
fingers entwined into her hair, feeling that tongue, that gold stud, roaming,
chewing me up. Me, babbling like I got Turrette’s, I think. You know, oooh,
aaah, fuck, real sex gibberish, winces of pain, delight, wonder, then one, two,
three, orgasm, more than one, she doing all the work. “E” is like the Energizer
Bunny, a girl can go on, on and on, thank goodness for the chemists at Eli
not a selfish girl, so I reciprocated, good manners are important when a girl
has guests over. And, what the fuck are they putting in the water in Vegas? She
tasted like burnt copper and bee honey, that tiny little cunt, a real miracle
of engineering. Me peeking, leering over the edge of that lasered little mound,
at her tummy, tattoos, little girl blues, watching her get off, squirm, dance,
vibrate there on the white sheets, telling me that she loved me, that will
us dynamite bitches have heard that shit before, for you know. “Cuming” makes
people engrave promises that they can’t keep, ever, and we’ve all heard that
crap in the dead of night when the fucking is over. Geese, maybe doll, we can
see each other again, ride the bumper cars, usual bull shit from some guy as he
sneak thief’s out before the crack of dawn, only thing left, a salt deposit he
pix axed into your cunt as a reminder that once again you didn’t get off.
thank heavens I am a lesbian.
get me started.
we went back and forth, around and around, up and down, dildos were involved, they
sell them at Wal Mart with nifty little motors in them. It hurt like fucking
hell, I needed that pain, cleared my mind, orgasm after orgasm, both of
us. Then, bubkus left, sapped, brain
sparking fire like frayed wiring in a cheap Beth Stur tenement flop, those
little white sparks in my head, you know when you stand too soon.
a trooper, leered at me, sweat everywhere, me, her eyes rolled into the back of
her head, muttered something in Swahili, then passed out. Down goes Frazier,
down goes Frazier, she was out for the count, thank fucking god.
was hours ago, and now I’m in my usual get up, black hip hugger jeans this
time, no leather, got blood on them, Chang’s dry cleaners down below later,
Mrs. Chang is a Zen master at getting blood outta my clothes. Lace my small
feet, white gym socks, into my black work boots, black body shirt, shoulder
holster, gun hanging on the bed post, can’t forget that. Don’t want Glenda
messing with my gun, maybe put a hole in her ear.
grab it, sleeveless arms, cut like copper cables, glances in the wall mirror. I
groan, god, fucking vanity, I’m a slave to it, but have work to do, an early
morning sit down.
I know, daughter went missing; nothing new about that in Sin City, and so, I
gotta scoot. Glad about Glenda snoozing, I’m not one of those gals who likes to
hang around, you know breakfast, chit chat, reminiscing, holding hands, making
promises I can’t keep. Fuck, it’s my guy traits; I can be very butch at times,
I’m working on that.
my PI office on an off-shoot of this 4,000 sq ft loft, will leave Glenda the
standard girl escape note. You know, fab, marvelouso, magnifico, let’s hook up
next time, no mention of love, can’t get the words out of my throat. Presto
chango, tip toes, coupla a c-notes too on her pillow, just in case the kid
needs a Uber, she can find her own way out, I’m gone.
sleep, no time to sleep, I feel pretty good, except ever step I take hurts,
hurts a lot. I feel like I have a drill bit stabbed in my cunt, brings smiles
to my face, proves I’m alive. I’m always willing to pay the VIG for a good
time, which I had on multiple levels last night.
stroll in to my PI office. Stylish place, twenty foot ceilings, sky lights,
like the rest of my loft tattooed into the ceiling, pine floor, couple of old
Persian rugs, two Kileems, a Bokhara, I love old stuff. I scavenged some old
English pine antiques, desk, chair, comfy cushion for my tiny ass, thank god,
armoires, tables, love Steuben, Dom Nancy lamps, got three of them, bright
lights hurt my eyeballs. Place looks soft, bathed in morning mauve, low golden
light bulbs, soothes my hectic mind.
need coffee, bad, light up my Mr. Coffee machine, smells sweet, pour it in to
my “Visit Las Vegas” mug, take a sip, the door bell buzzes down at the bottom
of my private stair case.
laugh looking at my little bamboo back scratcher I got in Thailand with the
words stenciled on them saying. “Thanks for Visiting Thailand and fucking our
twelve year old girls, come back real soon.” I had that thing custom made when
I was in Bangkok.
don’t wear a watch, keep breaking them on some mug’s teeth, digital feed on one
of my two Apple machines says 8 AM. Perfect, Ginger is right on-time, I
at my monitors street video feeds, N. Vegas is a treacherous place, street
people, drug addicts, gang bangers, a girl can’t be too careful. I see Ginger,
good, smack the button, my security iron gate clicks, watch Ginger enter, time
to go to work.
to her on the phone, got some of it, her gorgeous thirteen year old daughter
Missy, a waif, seemed like a real sweet kid, bad roll of the cubes, her ending
up with Ginger. She’s gone missing, seen her once when I was peddling my bike
around Vegas, a Shimono, love that ride.
Ginger, I heard, had a bar maid gig over there at “Jasons”, the only other club
in N. Vegas that is worth setting your boot heels in. Special, elegant, a real
class place, private, very private, fabulous bar, kitchen, top chefs, booze,
real silver, china, crystal, nice little cozy dance floor. It’s Cuban cool,
locals only, run by one of the most stunning and spooky females on the planet.
Bitches name is Mandel, a real stylilist, she owns the place, no tourists,
ever, you only get in if she OK’s it, and I guess if she digs your vibe. This
Mandel, well, she’s got a heart a gold, they say, lots a rumors, lots of echoes
pinging of who she really is, rumor is she’s killed men, lots of men. Guess she
hired Ginger because she’s got a big heart, lots of last chance broads show up there,
most flaming out in the end.
walks in, I internally gasp, she looks ravaged, strung out, blue welt kissing
one closing eye, lip cut, she’s about forty two, meaning she’s pressing a cold,
hard sixty, in Vegas years. Youth evaporates real quick here, like one of those
leaf mulchers eating tree limbs you see those Mexican gardeners using all the
time on the street.
thin, not like a healthy thin like moi, but more like a meth thin. You know,
sunken eyes, black circles, dirty blond disheveled hair, once pretty white like
mine, but not anymore. Her clothes don’t look right, blue jeans stained with
something, flip flops, dirty feet, emaciated arms struck out of an old lime
green tank top, hands noticeably shaking, eyes darting everywhere like some
kind of lab rat. She pulls out a pack of smokes, generic, looks at me, I nod
OK. She can barely find the tip of the smoke with her plastic Bic, smoke
stacking out of her small nose. I nod at a chair, she sits; I don’t like any of
it, any of it at all.
is, of course, the poster girl for every young stunner that ever got off a Grey
Hound Bus from Bangor, Biloxi or Fresno. You know, once tall, beautiful,
stupid, having dreams of something, anything; anything better than being
sodomized by a drunken uncle Chester, as then, her dreams turn into horrific
night mares. They might as well give these hopeless girls play sheets when they
abort the bus, you know. First comes a job as a show girl, if they have any
talent at all, then the drugs, clubs, nude dancing, you know Rage, Tao, Badda
Bing, Ghost Bar, Voodoo Lounge, and then the predators set in, and its all
about the Voodoo, a black world that suddenly becomes these girl’s reality.
men, older guys, clothes, gold chains, Benzes, Porsches, Beemers, goblets of
dough, lies, bastards, palatial cribs over there in “The Lakes.” These
ignorant, insane girls usually end up with these werewolves, if their lucky,
most are not.
the fringe characters that eventually get IM.
gamblers, sweet talkers, road bump abs, drugs, booze, thugs and sketch artists
of crime, pimps, real garbage, that’s what they do. Then, the girl’s burn out,
turn out, next step stripping, then whoring, in call, then cocktailing,
followed by corner rendezvous off of Fremont Street. Then, death or a bus
ticket back home, dying locust, lives over, nothing left but bad memories of
their one minute of fame. That is Ginger’s MO, so let’s crack it. I do not like
those bruises on her face, but I’ve seen it all before, so I get to it.
what’s sup? Something about Missy, talk to me?”
can see she’s crawling out of her skin, jonesing, yellow stains on her fingers
from letting too many dying butts burn down too low. She kills the smoke in my
ash tray, mouth tics, eyes tics, she looks at me; I drill her straight with my
yeah, I ain’t seen her for three days. I been busy Jane, got in a little
trouble, lost my job at Jason’s, you know Vegas, needed a little time, so I got
Bobby to babysit her, ya know, he’s her dad, thought she’d be fine…fuck, I
I murmur audibly.
O’Brien, a real dirt bag, a piece a filth, runs the night shift over there at
that den of inequity “The Spearmint Rhino” a notorious strip club here in a bad
part of N. Vegas. A true drug addict, runs in call whores, drugs, a habitual
liar, criminal, runs numerous scams, addicted to the crap tables, a cop jacket
as long as my arm, alright, time for the gruesome facts.
don’t know what?” Where the fuck is your daughter?” I bark, like the pissed off
Doberman that I am.
bark wakes her up, she lights another smoke, I want to shove it in her nose,
UP BITCH, YOUR FUCKING DAUGHTER IS MISSING.” I don’t.
Jane, I fucking don’t know, aaah, uummm, seemed OK, when I done it…Fuck, Bobby
said he lost her…Said she was playin’ with a doll or somethin’, she just was gone,
he don’t know where…What am I gonna do, she’s my baby, I fucked up, please, can
ya help me, I need her real bad.”
I groan again to myself, as she starts shaking, tears rolling down her savaged
cheeks, mascara running everywhere, just making her look more hideous, smoke
screaming out of her running nose, me knowing the truth. The darling kid could
be on a fucking Jumbo Jet to Saudi Arabia, sittin on some Sheik’s lap, wearing
gold bangles, eating humus cheese burgers between fucking all a the Emi’rs
brothers, cousins and uncles 24/7.
white sheet set will pay a fortune for trafficked sweet young girls, top
dollar. You know, suppress your own women, keep the boot to their necks, trick
‘em out in wool “Snuggies” eye slits, a hundred and ten degrees, servants, wash
the dishes, pick up the camel poop in the sand, pump out the kids. Their
virtual slaves, the men, sit around in the souk, sip mint tea, smoke hashish,
fuck around all day, but I don’t think it went down that way; Bobby’s just not
that bright, connected, though he can be a dangerous little weasel at times.
lost her, Ginger? You’re fucking kidding me. What is she, a set of keys? I’m
assuming you didn’t call the cops, right?”
ashamed, terrified, lying, I think, nods that I am indeed correct, and then
Bobby said she’d turn up, stop moaning all the time, then he beat on me. I
guess I deserved it, you know Jane, he’s been real good to Missy and me.”
want to rip her lungs out of her chest, I don’t.
want to reach across the desk, and beat on her too, knock some daylight into
her brain. Fuck, how many times have I heard this same story, in different versions,
well, I can’t count the ways.
I feel gutted, the last forty or so hours, finally catching up. I pretty much
know what I’m going to do, whether she gives me the green light or not. Two
things I hate more than anything, guys who smack women, without permission of
course, me being a permission girl when the mood is right, and some fuck-wad
hurting an animal or a kid, who at the moment is probably disappeared into the
cesspool Vegas is, and always will be. So I have to be coy, smart, because she
loves this creep, and all it will take is bunch of dead red roses to turn her,
even give up the kid, if it came to that. Drug addicts are like that.
Ginger, you want me to ask around, look into it a little, you know discreet,
Bobby doesn’t have to know, how’s that sound.” I ask, me taking inventory of
what kind of weapons I will need when I visit Bobby O’Brien, hopefully in the
next half hour.
yeah, Ok, I ain’t got no money Jane, can I pay ya later…ahh.”
doll, no problem.” I lie. “Now scoot, I’ll ring you up when I find something,
Jane, you’re the best, I can’t tha…”
I seethe, trying to keep it together.
sees it, the blood fury in my melting eyeballs, commits a homicide on her
cigarette butt in my ash tray, stands, sways, looks at me one last time. She
flip flops down the stairs, out the security iron bars and is gone, into what,
I can only fucking imagine.
know she’s lying, I know there’s something else, there’s always something else,
and when I got the bit in my perfect teeth I can be a bit edgy, focused, like a
Great White zeroing in on a seal. I need to make a call, get an update, news
from my buddy over there at N. Vegas Metro, a homicide dick, a Lieutenant, one
a big roly-poly Hispanic cop, big smile, big personality and I go back a few years,
met at Jason’s of all places, serial killer, killing the homeless. He figured
the Mandel babe knew something, for she hung with this very hard, brilliant
artist dude, named Mal. He has an old bakery he converted into an artist’s
loft, just a couple a blocks from mine. Vic thought he was the killer, I didn’t
think so, told him that. This Mal character is one handsome stud of stone; one
of the few men that actually scares me.
knew my rep, asked me if I could snoop around, I did. Shit went down, Garcia
got hurt, hurt bad, turned out the perp was some insane real estate mogul,
bought up the slums, murdering the homeless, so property values would sky
rocket, which they did, then they didn’t. It’s a long story Mandel, Mal, maybe
a later day, maybe a better day for that story.
to say I’m amped, pissed liquid mercury melting my brain, and no time like the
present, time to roll, time to hit up LOU on the cell.
dial, “ring a ding ling.”
seeps out of the speaker. I get right to it, no small talk left in my mouth.
it’s Jane, I need a little help, you offering?”
cops call their Lieutenants Lou, love that.
Jane, some time, I miss ya. Yeah, sure, what’s up sweetness?”
Girl, friend of mine, gone missing, I was wondering if you had any paper on
her, any info.”
no problem, what’s her name, how old, MO if you got it, let me have it.
Garcia, totally professional, right to the point, he knows me, digs me, DITTO to
a Missy Smith, thirteen, blond, pretty, daughter of a sick head case, Ginger
Smith, I’m sure you got stats on her.”
a sec, let me see if a she’s in the box.”
wait, need a smoke, light up a Marlboro, puff, puff, I’m starting to act like
Ginger, agitated, manic, except I’m enraged, nothing new about that.
her, yeah, this Ginger, lots a busts, shoplifting, drugs, peddling her ass,
usual stuff, a coupla weeks here and there in the clank, nothing serious, you
want me to bring her in?”
Lou, it’s my thing. If you don’t mind, run her kid through the system, see if
she pops up, ring my cell if there’s anything, do you mind?”
at all Jane, what else, anything for you Jane, you know that.”
know that, I’ll send over a pink teddy bear for that doll daughter of yours,
just to say thanks. Gotta scoot.”
job with the Flicks take down, saved me and the boys a lot a grief, boys here
have big shout outs too ya, we all love ya, ya know.”
back at you, thanks Lou, my pleasure, more later.”
careful, ya hear.”
real careful, later.”
kill the cell, grateful for friends like Vic, stand, its all about “street
creds.” Lou’s got ‘em, I got ‘em, so I move to my pine gun cabinet, spinaroo
the dial on the heavy combination lock, open the door, smile; I always smile
when I see my guns.
love my guns, respect my guns, and glow looking at my AK-47, banana clip, a Saw
hanging next to it, you know the kind those radical dudes in the Special Forces
use killing bad guys in Afghanistan. I need something light today, ignore my
Glock, Walther PP-K, my Smith & Wesson Viper and my lovely old school Colt
45, focus on one of two Berettas hanging on the hook. Still have my other Glock
in my shoulder holster, but its Beretta time. So I grab it, fondle it, grab a
thirteen in the clip bullet cage, slap her in the bitch, ratchet a slug into
it. It’s the little things in life that make me happy. I then retrieve a black
silencer, screw it on the tip, give it a tug, my baby is ready too.
grab my 16 gauge Mossberg, over and under shot gun, a fist of shells, turn,
grab my other Glock, put it to bed, close the door, spinaroo the lock, sit, and
do one of my most fav things. I love the feeling of those red copper cap shells
revolving in my fingers, they almost make me cum. I slot six in the scatter gun
and now am ready to visit Bobby. He doesn’t know me that well, but he soon
I check out my six inch switch blade with “Tampa Bay City” stenciled into the
handle, love that too. “Click” back in the handle the blade goes, stab it into
my boot, have one last caffeine hit, make sure my PI gun license is in my jeans
pocket, turn, down the stairs I go.
players often go “On Tilt” when shit goes bad, I don’t go there, but I am close
as I cruise down Northern Ave, then pass MLK Blvd, check my GPS machine. It
tells me to hang a left. I move down the block and moan. Tract houses, part of
the new morgue Vegas has become, for sale signs everywhere, houses abandoned,
garbage, lawns overgrown, fucking raccoons, coyotes, cougars prowling the
street, almost. It’s tragic what’s happened to Vegas, but that’s evolution at
work. Darwin, that brain wizard was right.
Street fucked these people, with that subprime mortgage scam, and not one of
the corrupt pukes went to jail. I should visit Goldman Sacs and put an air hole
in that fuckwad Lloyd Blankfein’s forehead, he owns the whore house, and walked
away with about a hundred million buckaroos.
way down the street, I see it, Bobbie’s dump, same deal, except his Caddy Escalade,
black of course, is parked in the driveway, three houses on each side of his
are vacant, perfect. I can use my Mossberg, no eyes, no worry; gun shots are a
part of N. Vegas, as elevator music is to Trump Towers.
rip the Buick into the drive, kill her dead, no open door, melt over the
chassis, 16 gauge nestled in the cleft of my bare arm. I lift it, one hand
ratchet a cap into it, love that action. I feel my shoulder holster holding my
black Beretta, stiletto now in my hip hugger belt. My teeny tummy is sucking
air, I’m amped, eyes like lug bolts, chrome and hard. I feel like I’m on acid,
you know, you can see a pin at five hundred feet, move across the corpse of a
lawn, get to the door, no time to hang around, truth time, time to move.
one of those polite girls, you know,
knock, knock, knock, lets have a conversation, that only ever works in the
flicks, bad celluloid and since a little
angel’s life is at stake, I lift the Mossberg and “KABOOM.”
blow a foot-square hole into the door knob, the plywood blasts open. I re
shoulder the shot gun, lift my Beretta,
and cruise through the door, hallway, and then with my 9mm poking straight
ahead, both hands, head into the living room.
place looks like a poster for “Panic in Needles Park” one a my fav flicks,
ripped up couch, over stuffed filthy lounges, torn up curtains, soiled clothes,
old food cartons, Cheerios, Oreos, open packages of Little Debbie, the usual
junkie foods scattered every where. Carpet ripped, burned, stained, I see empty
bottles, looks like he’s a Dewar’s and Gordon’s freak. The smell of burnt eggs
stinks up the place. Junkies always
revert back to eggs, it’s all they can handle when their done nodding out. My
eyes are acute, scanners, miss nothing, can’t afford to. I see a .38 on a
table, a user’s shoot up kit, dime glassine bag of heroin, a cell, some other
shit, make note of it, important that.
see him; he’s bare chested, sitting at a desk, what, he didn’t hear Mr.
Mossberg? I see the ear phones, I-pod, on his ears, I get it. He’s a skinny
dude, all sinew, barefoot, filthy Levis, computer monitor staked into it, thick
red hair, freckles, he’s just about to take a snort from a pile of coke, could
be meth, on a mirror on the desk, straw half way up his snout.
surprise, he knows me, my rep, I hope. He sees my gun stabbed at him, he drops
his straw, stands, takes a step towards his 38, I drop the hammer.
Psssst.” “Thump Thump.”
drill two into the wall, about eight inches from his running nose. He freeze
him what the fuck.
a human Flex straw, druggies you know, eyes like hub caps, all the usual face
twitches. He moves towards me, this ain’t a home invasion, steps before his
couch, fists bunched. I smile, pistol whip him in the cheek.
blood erupts, moan, moan, moan,
and cause I’m in a bad mood, I whack him again, forehead time, just as he’s
going down to the cushions. I do a little bunny hop, spread eagle ‘em, grab a
tuft of hair, rip his bloody face to my stainless, hard eyes. I pry his bloody
mouth open, stick my silencer tip down to his tonsils.
hammer back, he looks crazed,
terrified, I guess he has a right to, as I seethe.
where is she. Fuck with me, I’ll bury you in a junk yard in Barstow.”
googly goops me, he’s a born loser, liar, doesn’t fit my mood, snot running
down his lips, eyes spilling tears. I pull the silencer out of his mouth, pop
one in the wall, then jab it back in his yap and ask this time, not nice like
the fucking kid? It can be easy, or hard, you choose?’
head, like one a those Dodger bobble head dolls over there at the ball park at
Chavez Ravine bangs up and down as he sees I’m all serious and such, as he
mumbles words I can’t understand. I want the kid, can’t afford to whack him
yet, so I rip my baby from his mouth, stand, point it at one of his blue
eyeballs; cock her. That “Click” usual brings the truth, as he touches the
blood on his face, mouth, jerks eyeballs at his red fingers, and then glares at
me, not so nice.
can see the Kinko balls rotating in his head, measuring me. I am a shoelace
after all, but I don’t think so, usual coward, whack some broad around, be a
man, but he can see I’m a hard kind, different than other girls, as he mumbles
some bull shit at me, which makes my hormones boil. I glance at my jeans.
“Fuck” more blood, thank god for Chang’s dry cleaners.
Chang is a genius with a bar a soap, always getting blood outta my clothes,
like her for that. Drives me nutso though, always jabbering about her cousin
Ming, a great guy. I think she said he raises rats to feed to pythons, a real
success story, wants to hook me up.
say, Naw, don’t have a snake, well I do have a pair of snake cowboy boots,
don’t tell her that…WHAT EVER.
Jane, you fucked me up, why ya gotta be that way, I don’t know what the fuck
yer talkin’ bout.”
pour two into the pillows, dust, feathers fly, he jerks all around, bitch
yelps, yips, fucking pathetic. I take a step, pistol whip him in the side of
his head. He screams, moans, face in the hands, blood everywhere, bare feet
jerking off like a motel quarter in a slot vibrator bed. I step back; he’s
weeping, leers at me, my eyes, Beretta, as I seethe.
one in the cabasa, amigo. Where’s Missy, now, not later.”
will they ever learn? I like to think sometimes, but not really. He’s measuring
me, but he’s a coward, as he spits out some words at me, so I listen, just
praying to some Buddha head that he makes a play at me.
Ok. Jest don’t hit me no more. Fuck Jane, I ain’t feeling good, I need a hit,
come on, just one, I’ll tell ya everything, please Jane, I feel sick, real
really.” Simonizes through my mind, knowing exactly what is going down.
jerk my silencer at the crank on the desk, nod once, whisper, “Go.”
the fuck not, I got a lot of violence, like battery acid pumping through my
arteries. Maybe I can get off, before he finally let’s go of the truth. Fuck,
I’m selfish like that at times, can’t help it.
stands, he’s right, he looks strung out, he’s got tracks on his arms. I can see
he’s got the heebie jeebies; he doesn’t look that good, courtesy of Mrs. Beretta
and the bitch at bat with her.
He moves, all
wobbly and such to his desk,
eyes jerking over at his .38, his partially open drawer, then moi, then at the
coke, and I figure he’s got a piece in the drawer; I’m hoping he goes there.
have a plan, always think head, Bobby Fisher knew that, so I ask and I mean it
Missy. Last time I ask.”
Jane, jest a sec, why ya gotta be so hard…Just a sec.”
shoves the straw in his nose, hits the pile, I move to him, rip a tuft of red
hair, lift his head, slam his face into the coke, breaking his nose as I do,
white flake memories dozing in the air, straw protruding out of his nose, stuck
somewhere up there. Those things are always a mystery to me when they happen.
screams, bounces real good, falls back in his office chair, blood, coke, other
shit splashed on his face, as he leers at me with terror in his eyes, then
wails again, as I see his hand reflex into the drawer. I immediately kick it
shut with my boot, shattering his hand, as he bellows. Fuck that had to hurt,
twitches, jerks, weeps, balls all over; he’s totally fucked up; I never planned
it any other way.
get real close, put the silencer tit to his forehead, there’s that “Click”
again as his eyeballs revolve to the back of his head, return to sender, and he
gawks at me, finally finds the mumbles I
was looking for.
ok, ok. Sheeeet, pleeeease, don’t hit on me no more…she’s good….The fucking VIG
Jane, bookies…ahhhh my nose, fucking Kansas State, was a sure thing, missed the
fucking spread…I’m sick…rented he…he…her out…gave her to this guy…she’s all
Polar, feel like a sheet of stainless steel has plated my body, and then his
words absorb. I straddle him, rip his head back, and this time not soft, like
before, I break three of his teeth as I punch my heater into his mouth, and
ROAR, wanting to pull the trigger, bad, real bad.
FUCKING RENTED HER…WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN?…RENTED HER TO WHO?”
rip the silencer out of his mouth, he begins to babble, and I can smell, as
well as hear his own urine drip, drip, dripping on the floor, telling me he’s
on page, fucking finally.
know ‘em Jane…Sure…Sh…shes all good…Ed…eddi… Eddie Jett, gga…gave me three
grand…sa…sid…said he’d treat her Ok…Yeah, she’s at Eddie’s cr…crib…jeese,
thin I…I’m dyin…I.”
JETT, my brain hemorrhages, not that deviant, ex Rocker, has hit on me a
zillion times, no way, so I pistol whip the words right out of his mouth, he
whimpers, groans, as I stand, shaking all over. My blood, boiling like lighter
fluid, I face him, hand shaking, I want to kill him, one more cockroach off the
face of the earth won’t be missed, I don’t.
not dead yet. If you’re lying, if you pick up a phone, write a fucking post
card, I will come back and FUCKING put a bullet in your ear, CLEAR?” I bellow,
turn, take a step, and then stop from a single word.
always the magic word for me as my lips tick, I turn, find a smile, you know
the kind, look at him, tilt my head, look more, smile more, perfect,
Ooops-a-daisy, I can see he knows he’s made a boo boo. I am a biatch, and know
this is the perfect time, for him to see just how big of a bitch I am.
walk over to him, smile, then.
hammer two in his knee caps, he screams, blood, bone, sinew, splashed on the
white walls behind him, he thumps to the floor.
time to take out the garbage, I snarl. “You want more, I’ll be back.”
turn, walk to the front door, don’t look back, move to my sweetie, hop the
door, fire her up, lay two tracks of rubber out the drive, hit drive, mimic
more rubber, I’m gone, a heat seeking, fire breathing Predator Drone on tract
for one thing, and one thing only, Eddie Jett.
knows Eddie Jett, fifty eight, dyed black hair, gone to suet, an ex rocker
star, like one of those Metallica, Dee Snyder, acid rock band guys. You know in
the eighties, nineties, ripping it up, talent, drugs, groupies, power in their
music, not my kind, but lots a kids went off on it. Then what, fame, stardom,
two much booze, drugs, girls, everything gets twisted around, and they can’t
get it up any longer.
then make the leap, for the big Casino money, end up looking like Wayne Newton,
Elvis, Liberace, burn outs, pretenders, ghosts of the past, two shows a day at
the Bellagio, echoing their past hits by rote to a legion of semi comatose
fans. You know, the plaid clothes, motor home set, broken down old broads with
busted dreams, panties on the stage, you know the types, hitting the feed bag
at the smorgasbord over there at Caesars Palace, one last orgy before the
Celebrex and Lipitor Circuit kicks in and a concrete casket lid, which finally
ends the pain.
Jett, well, he’s the worst of them, a real degenerate, leans towards the bubble
gum set, that’s his MO, makes sense, Ginger’s kid now. He knows me, man he
knows me really well. I see him at The Bent, and the Mandel babe’s joint,
Jason’s and cause I’m a stick blond, a real beauty queen, he’s forever hitting
on me. You know, come on doll, come for a visit, dinner, Crystal, some toot and
a roll in the sack with a bag of sick, sagging skin, no thank you very much.
I’d rather fuck a Zebra over there at the N. Vegas zoo.
sorta have an open invitation to his crib, that’s good for my play, and have
his number, am certain it will just a take a ring a ding ling to get an invite,
which I’m going to do, right after I get a cup of black java, right there at
Dunkin Doughnuts, just there.
now I gotta chill, for just before I murder a man, I gotta get my heart beat
down, my mind straight, so the top of my head doesn’t vaporize.
see, get a cup A JOE, a jelly doughnut, remember to get Lou’s kid that pink
Teddy Bear I promised.
it, I can’t get past it, I got killing on my mind, Eddie Jett’s killing.
THE ICE TOMBS
Come to Vegas
baby, you’ve seen the pull, the
tube ads, Madison Ave spin run amok, gym rat dudes, road bump abs, all the
country club models dancing, stilettos, skin and mini-skirts, boogying the
night away, strobe light neon, Long Island Ice teas, Margarita Ville, shots,
hits and slammers, a hit of E, a line of coke, sniff a little H, fuck and suck
the night away. Morning like a black dwarf dead star, crash at the casino
swimming pool, tan, lithe bodies, banshee madness, it’s all there, just at the
tip of a girl’s fake fingernails. Hit up the casinos, Bellagio, MGM, Paris, the
green felt, stacks of black chips, Black Jack every time, hard eleven as the
cubes dance on the green felt, zing, zing, zing, bells, whistles, jack pot,
another fucking winner, why not you?
Why not you?
all hideous bull shit and all
about the fucking Voodoo in the end.
hype, the pretty neon, Vegas is a
fucking Warsaw Ghetto genocidal holocaust of pain, death, pulverized dreams, all
fueled by perversion, deviance, decadence, seduction, addiction, gambling, sex,
extortion, drugs and insidious big Wall Street money.
arrive in a 40 gees Benz with the rent money, your kids College dough, ya leave
in a pool of blood and vomit in a 250 grand Greyhound bus, that’s if you
fucking get out alive at all.
is the worst, gangs, junkie whores,
homeless, meth dealers, the end of the line, no pretty hype for that sewer. No
posters. No TV, no U Tube, Face book ads, no pretty colored posters exposing
that place. Just police chalk outlines on a slab of asphalt, red, blue, red,
blue coroner lights, exposing some teenager’s last exposure after a life of
like lemmings, 16-year-old runaway
girls, gobbled up by the predator men as they get off the bus, Mickey Mouse
back pack, cheap shoes, a crap Walmart leather jacket, as they escaped a
drunken bourbon breath step-dad that sodomized them, out of Oklahoma City, or
Bangor, or Tampa Bay City they come.
award escaping nights of
nightmares, a life as a junkie, in-call whore,
nude dancer, drunk, some young girl, turned out, raped, murdered, final resting
place, The Ice Tombs over there at
North Vegas Metro Homicide.
sitting here, all 5 ft-11, 120 pounds of
me, in my tricked-out 59 turquoise and white convertible, flared tail-finned honey,
big chrome smiling grill, Buick, at another Dunkin Donuts on the final journey
searching for a 13-year-old abducted angel.
I am Jane,
Vegas PI, bounty hunter and that’s
what I do and I’m in a violent fucking mood.
As of yet,
I don’t have any blood on my black
leather hip huggers, or my Nordic buzz cut cropped white hair, but I figure
that’s gonna change at the drop of a peso. My eyes are blue/green, that turn
purple in rage, like they are at this moment.
on a case, have the scent and I’m just
about to nail-gun a dart into the last question left, of where this little
innocent princess has gone; gone missing from this tragic burning fucking
a queer girl, thank Jehovah, from
the moment I sluiced outta the womb.
I love fucking,
sucking, kissing girls, I’m so
lucky, and there’s no shortage of these goddesses in Vegas, thank the folks at
the K-Y Jelly factory for that.
thin as a whippet, Mensa smart, once had
eating disorders, no longer, not to mention moi being so bi-polar, so OCD
struck, IQ solar, like a meteor’s flaming tail whizzing by the rings of Saturn.
I have these
martial arts belts, which offset
my expertise with guns, have tons of them, also knives, hatchets, and my fave,
my steel-toed boots that I usually kick ass with. I love hand to hand combat,
no matter how big some puke is.
I get my ass
kicked, so what, it’s a part of
considered beautiful, Nordic-like in
feature, which means absolutely fucking nothing to me. Luck of the life dice,
beauty, more of a curse if you let the bitch grab you by the balls, rule your
life, not me.
If all you’ve
ever been is pretty, well you’re
fucked, cause that, like a vat of muriatic acid eating iron, changes in an eye-blink,
and then what do ya have? Nada, zilch, just a fading photo of you when you
thought you were ALL THAT, ya peek at, between serving the breakfast special at
Since my parents
died almost ten years ago,
drunk killed them and left me millions, well, I spent almost every waking
moment educating myself, helping others, trying to be the savior of the poor,
kids, girls and animals. I try to remember every day how lucky I am, and how so
many millions of good people struggle everyday to keep the heat going, put some
chow out for the kids, as the government continues to cut any food aid for the
poorest people in America.
I work the
homeless shelters, the food lines,
do what I can and trust me, I’m no Joan of Arc, no poster girl for an average
American PTA life, perfect, I ain’t, but I try and think I have a good heart
and that’s why I became a Vegas PI/Bounty hunter.
save the world, but tonight, just maybe
I can save a lost little girl, that’s why I’m here, at the donut place, sipping
coffee, eating a donut, you know, the kind with a hole in the middle.
chilling, earlier, had a meeting with this
meth-addicted mom of the year in my office, Ginger was the bitch’s name, just
fucking perfect, a sit down at my 5000 sq. ft. loft I built over Chang’s
She gave up
her 13-year-old kid Missy to her
drug and gambling-addicted father, a scum fuck named Bobby O’Brien, you know,
just so she could get fucking high again.
Bobby earlier, uninvited, shoved my
silenced Beretta tip into his mouth, he tasted the gun oil, ya do that, a puke
always digs the truth out of the stucco. After, I was in a bad mood, so I put
two, psssst, psssst, Beretta caps into his knees.
He gave the
kid up to a real deviant, to pay
off a gambling debt. Apparently, he missed the spread on a B-ball Kansas State
game. He gave his daughter to a heavy metal rocker child molester, Eddie Jett.
You know the
type, once a power in acid rock,
now a casino whore, going through the motions, a 60-year-old burn-out, dyed
Elvis black-haired puke, turned to jump suits and suet, sucking up the big
hotel casino money for screaming women, tossing their bras and panties on the stage,
closer to the end now, than the beginning, one last conga line at the Caesar’s
Palace smorgasbord, before they die on the golf course from a fucking heart
blood is boiling like fulminated
I gotta cool
Jett knows me, I bump a rub into
him sometimes when I’m out at the clubs, on Case, hunting, and mostly at this
fab private club called Jason’s, owned by this stunning blond doll named
Mandal. She’s the only woman I’ve ever feared, rumor is she’s killed before,
like me, killed insidious men.
More on her
later, another time, a better time.
still waiting for a return ring-a-ding-ling
from my best friend, Lieutenant Victor Garcia (Lou the cops call their
lieutenants) from N. Vegas Metro Homicide.
running paper on this Ginger over there at
Most a my
friends are cops, or hard and
beautiful people, criminals, super thieves, like my friend King, a black super
guy, who runs the biggest Gang in N. Vegas. All of us one-percenter’s have something
in common. We never lie to each other and we see the world as it is, like it
was washed in an acid bath. We have a bond of loyalty, speak to truth and know
sometimes the truth comes from a bullet, when all else fails.
I’m a stick blonde, actually kind of pre-pubescent type, Eddie Jett’s forever
hitting on me.
doll, come for a visit, my crib, some Dom, dinner, Crystal, some toot, I love
eat my own puke than roll in the sack with a bag of sick, sagging degenerate
No thank you very much. I’d rather fuck a Zebra over there
at the N. Vegas Zoo.
said that to him, kind of tortured him, always leaving the sex door open.
have an open invitation to his crib. That’s good for my play, and I have his
cell number. I’m certain it will just a take a ring a ding ling to get an
invite to a night of debauchery. Which
is exactly what I am going to do, the phone thing that is, right after I get a
cup of black java right there at Dunkin Donuts, just there.
“Blink, blink, blink.”
into Dunkin Donuts, kill the 357 power house engine. I Check my lips in the
side mirror, (vanity again) I find my cherry Chap Stick in that little pocket
in my jeans. Slapping some on, I feel better. I then begin to move.
hurts my blues, but gotta have some caffeine or my head’s going to boil off of
my long neck. I hit the kid up for a jumbo, tip him 5 bucks, and get a smile
filled with braces back. Out the door I go.
to leap the door, when I see two bulls
from Vegas Metro, in a Blue and
White. They’re eating the usual vitamin-enriched breakfast of donuts and
coffee. I know them, smile at them and get waves, smiles back.
I so dig
cops. They’re underpaid, no respect and misunderstood. Could you imagine a
world without them? The fucking deviants would be lined up eight blocks long, at
your house, raping your wife and daughters, even your dog and your fucking goldfish.
Not my Gumbo, Stella though. There would be pure chaos without cops holding the
Thin Blue Line.
sip some coffee out of that little hole in the Styrofoam lid. I am about to
fire her up when my cell buzzes on the seat next to me.
her, and see its Lieutenant Garcia. Good. I was hoping to get a shout out from
him before I visited Eddie Jett.
I can hear
something in his voice that sets anti-freeze in my veins, none of it in my
tired brain is any good.
sorry, can ya get to Metro quick like, meet you in the parking lot.”
be right there.” I shoot back at him.
questions asked, none needed, as I read the dire meaning in his voice.
none of it is any good. I could tell just from the dark gravel spilling from
his quivering, hard voice that bad news is coming.
tinsel steel world, Vegas. No one has to tell me that. Anything ever happens
good in Vegas, is usually a mistake.
As I drive into the bowels of N. Vegas, I feel
like one of those dudes on Death Row, days, hours, minutes spitting away. Next
stop an Alcatraz Electric Chair or a gurney with a needle. You get it, just
before a last meal of pork chops and eggs.
minutes later, I pull into Metro. As promised, there is Lou, looking the usual
tired and stressed out. He’s wearing his usual rumpled-paper-bag brown suit,
which he probably slept in. Cops have long hours, desperate hours, hard lives
and bent Id’s. That’s why so many eat their guns when they retire over there in
that ex-cop grave yard, Coeur de Leane, Idaho.
I make the
walk, face him off. He looks at me, and you know, that look when a cop shows up
at your front door, is hesitant to tell a mark the bad news.
you want this, Jane?’
nods and tilts his head at the precinct. We turn and begin to stroll. I follow
him as we walk into the three-story building. I feel like I have an iceberg
shoved up my ass.
our way through the various precinct rooms, Homicide, Gang Unit, Bunco, Fraud
and Missing Persons. Everywhere there are guys, girls, plain clothes, gold
badges, shoulder rigs, hip holsters, hand guns and blue uniforms. They’re doing
what they do best. They’re trying to keep a tidal wave of vomit from breaking
apart a city already on the edge of a moral-less abyss.
faded green walls, we move down the stairs, one floor, an open door and, then
we move. We are silent as we walk along a cold hall, way past flickering neon,
mimicking my dead, dying heart. We pass the CSI
kids, geeks, smart, microscopes, telescopes, DNA, blood, semen, hair and fiber
analysis machines humming. They’re mesmerized with electronic gizmos,
computers, lots of computers, state of the art snoop machines.
These are the medical sleuth ghouls.
someone, leave a toenail, a hair follicle, they will get YA. Normally, I’m
fascinated by all of it, usually, but not now. I have a sweet little girl on my
~ ~ ~
The ICE Tombs, Crypts, The
Ice House, cops have a lot of cool names for the place at the END OF THE HALL.
dig hip lingo, smart talk, but not today, not now, not this day. I hate smart,
hip words at the moment. The innocent never deserve the big sleep along a stainless
steel slab, especially some little bird
that never had a bad tweet one day of
her short life.
out at a massive, stainless, hermetically sealed door. Garcia stalls out, looks
at me, my head ticks as I seethe. “Do it.”
he hits the big lever.
“Swoosh” the door
and follow him into the other name the cops gave the morgue, Blue Moon Heaven,
for the entire place
is bathed in blue neon. I don’t know why. Maybe because blood looks blue under
a full moon, don’t know.
I also feel like vomiting.
across the room, center cut, see the Doc, know him a little, from Jason’s. Doc
Reynolds is his name, Danny.
Jake guy, straight shooter, smart, coroner by trade. He’s decked out in blue
too, neoprene gloves, space suit, booties, apron. He’s standing right next to a
stainless bed that has a blue tarp on it. Blue seems to be the fucking color of
the day. When I get home, I’m going to burn every piece of blue togs I own,
including my Levi jeans.
up, my eyes roam, I see a tiny toe tag on a miniature toe. Exactly like the one
I’m going to put on Bobby O’Brien, most likely after I visit Eddie Jett and put
one on him, too.
at the doc, looks at me, I look at Reynolds. He nods, understands, says.
some time, you a part of this?”
Danny, I’m a part of this.”
want to see her, yeah?”
want to see my girl.”
at Garcia, they exchange something. Lou nods. I exhale my grief. Off comes the
tarp in one swoosh.
Cobalt, Rhodium, they are the hardest elements on earth and at the moment, like
me. But, there’s nothing tinsel hard about me, no. I’m a female looking at a
waif-like, blond hair, white, almost translucent and transparent skin. There
are purple, blue autopsy scars, I think, in a “V” trailing from her
larynx. Uninterrupted, they are running down
to her sternum, ending up at her hips. The cuts are all sewn together by purple
twine that matches the color of her lifeless lips. Right near where her womb
would be, I see red catgut. I fight bile in my throat. The catgut looks odd,
don’t know why. Hair is bristling on my arms. That’s my usual TELL,
letting me know that something is
out of whack here. Way out of whack.
I take a
step back; want to vomit, fight it, fighting my tears. I am stunned as I stare
at a little girl, ninety-five pounds of her and now a dead slab of white chalk
as silence thunders through the room.
I begin to
stutter, mumble, can’t get my mind right, wrapped around this mortal sin. My
eyes are watering as Lou takes my arm, rears me in, whispers.
Jane, what did you say?”
I snort it
back in to my nose, brain, jaw clenches, I’m coming back now, back to life.
There is a:
wait attitude blow torched in my mind now.
I turn to
Garcia, whisper back at him. “Nothing Lou, nothing at all.”
happened here Doc? Talk to us, Danny.” Garcia asked.
Really, in his heart, I knew he didn’t want to
“Sure Lou, sure.”
exchange glances, me and the doc. I nod. He nods back.
you know, detective over there in homicide, found her under the underpass, over
there by 6th and Northern. You know the place Lou, homeless, card
board houses, drugs, the end of the road, for most, that is.”
nods, and tries to swallow his grief back into his stomach.
I know the
sewer; don’t want to go there. I shut up, as Doc continues.
her, CSI found a baggie on her, cocaine. Blood
tox came up clean, stuff lasts for a month in the blood stream, still
trying to figure that out.”
looks at me, I look at him. Doc is almost hesitant about continuing. The
lieutenant nods for him to go on.
gonna like this, Lou.”
takes a deep breath, looks at me
He nods at
doc to get on with it.
she was pregnant. Figure from her uterus size, about seven months.”
jolt it out.
draw blood from my bottom lip, I don’t feel it.
ABC’s now put together in my head.
Mother fucker. They’ve been pimping the kid out for months.
That’s what this is all about.
bellows as Garcia twists me around, gets hard in my eyes, asks.
for small talk, he sees it in my eyes. I feel it in my temples. I sorta snap at
him, turn to Reynolds, and ask.
you got more Danny, I’m guessing?”
Jane, there’s more, all bad.”
starts pointing that blue rubber finger, this way and that, up and down at the
blue, purple ski trails stitching up my angel.
what killed her, Jane, Lou. Ya know the arteries pump bout 50 pints of blood a
day. Hepatic arteries carry
oxygenated blood to the liver. They missed that. Portal veins, big guys, feeding
the fetus, also intestines to the
liver, missed that too. What killed her, my opinion, we’ll know a little better
later, was that whoever cut her, my guess was to snag the baby, hit the Umbilical
arteries. Those lead along the
umbilical cord to the baby’s heart. So, she bled out.”
Well that’s just fucking great. My brain seethes, as Reynolds scratches his head for a
sec and continues.
at the crime scene, so they, though premature, I guess got the kid, seems
that’s what they were after. It’s fucked up, LOU. Don’t know how much longer I
can do this shit.”
groans, as I stay silent. All of it made sense now, way too much sense. All I’m
doing is hoping I have enough bullets to take care of all of it after we’re
done counting sutures here.
ain’t all. It gets sicker. We CAT-scanned her head. You see the blue around her
swollen eye sockets and forehead, her eyeballs ruptured. We’ll know more once
we get inside, but to me, it’s real clear. They cut her Thalamus away from
her frontal lobes. They gave her a lobotomy.
Lou, my fucking God.”
moved to a stainless steel door, hiding another crypt, another victim in it.
Smashing my fist into it, big dent. I felt nothing. I jerked back to Reynolds,
leered at him like I wanted him dead.
the messenger, Jane, just the messenger.”
Yeah, a fucking messenger of doom. What else is new in
~ ~ ~
felt like one of those fucked-up reactors in Japan, melting, and I tried to calm,
but not really. It wasn’t Doc’s fault, as I calmed, for real, pulse down, mind
whispered to him to continue. “Go on.”
the fad, turn of the century, later even. Old way was to cut the forehead, and snip,
snip, snip, you’re a vegetable,
well to some degrees anyways. Body stays alive, mind dead, guess they were
makin’ a sex doll, don’t know. Any ways, later in the century they used an adrenaline
solution, real, real
primitive stuff. Who ever cut her, knew their stuff. They went through the eye
socket, used a Lucoton, kinda sharp spoon gadget, and after a clip, you have a
passive human being.
They call it “Trans Orbital Inclusion,
very technical. I see it going
down this way.”
closed, imagining all of it, eyes open, looking at Garcia, Doc, he then pointed
at two red dots on her small breasts.
they Tasered her, lobotomized her and then went for the baby with a simple
C-Section. They botched that, hit an artery, she bled out. If he wasn’t
a doctor, then close to it, lotsa deviant
ex-doctors in Vegas. Real sick stuff, Jane, but what’s new about that.”
Dan…Fucking nothing is never new.” Garcia, pain in his voice, whispered.
more Doc?” Lou asked.
her, time stops. I look at her blue painted finger nails, gasp inside. Fuck, she
just wanted to be pretty. I
see a missing nail, move to her, take her cold hand, look again, look back at
about this, where’s her fucking fingernail?”
almost forgot. Kids at CSI saw that,
no sign at the perp’s scene. Just guessing, maybe she fought before she died,
I forgot one thing. When Detective Carol found her, she was still frozen stiff.
Homicide thinks they kept her in a freezer for a while, don’t know, found ice
in her tissue, blood, urine, that looks right to me.”
you mean like a popsicle.”
Jane, like a Popsicle.”
deranged, I throw my head back, begin to laugh, maniacal, crazed.
I don’t know how many people are going to die tonight, but
the list is growing.
Finally, and mercifully, Garcia wraps his bear
of an arm around me, draws me in close. Instantly I morph, begin to sob
uncontrollably. Seconds pass, tear ducts Spackle
up. Molten lava eats water, I move away, as Vic begins to pull me towards the
away, no more tears, there will be more later, as I leer at Doc, as my voice
trembles, not a weak kind of sound, but that kind when you feel fury ripping
apart every cell in your body.
“I need a
moment with her, alone.”
get it, nod, walk to the door, scram out of it.
I jack the
breath back in my nostrils, my head jilts. I look at the kid, walk over, and
stare down at her. Her eyes were once blue, now they’re opaque, almost white,
death, no one gets out alive in the end, but, not this. Not now.
I take her
hand. It’s cold, as cold as mine. I don’t mind, and, then see her blue finger
nail polish, the broken nail. My heart explodes. Tears, drip, drip, dripping on
her finger tips, the ones she had painted,
so she could be a pretty little girl. That’s all she wanted in life, was just a
chance. One chance just to be a little kid, a child with a teddy bear.
forward, close her eyes, they’re cold too. Draping the tarp over her naked body
to her chin, I want to give her dignity back to her. I just want her to know
someone loves her.
sick, cheap, no glib, no smart remarks and no vanity in the revolver any more.
I feel ashamed, more tears, bouncing off her dead skin, stretched like plastic
over her lifeless corpse. I cut the tears right out of my face, for the moment.
No more tears, not just yet. I lean down, close to her tiny ears, she smells
like embalming fluid. My nose wrinkles, the odor clarifies my mind. My lips
move close and then I whisper as softly as I have ever spoken any words in my
baby…you rest now…the white angels are waiting for you, you did your best…it’s
not your fault…” My throat constricts.
like it has concrete packed in it. “There, there sweetie, you let Jane take
care of it now…I’m going to make everything right. I love you doll…I really
straighten up, get right and look at her one last time. Pulling the tarp over
her face, I smile, swallow and then look one last time at her. Moving to the crypts
door, I look back, nod once and
~ ~ ~
“OH, POWERS from Hell, grant me Nero’s wish, that all women
have but one head and that head belongs to the screw who tyrannizes me: then
grant me the pleasure of chopping it off!”
Paris, 1700’s, DeSade wrote that, in his own blood. It seems reasonable to me.
I’m in a head-chopping-off kind of mood.
Once I was
out of The Tombs, Garcia cornered me.
I could see stark concern on his brown, Pudge
Rodriguez of a face. He knows me, and he also knows I sometimes can nudge
my toes over the Blue Line, well, sometimes way over that line.
went like this.
Come on Jane, you know something. Naw Vic, it’s just the
kid upset me. I know you Jane, let me and the boys help. Naw, it’s all good.
Don’t fuck up Jane, blah, blah, blah, and blah, blah, blah, back and forth.
blew him off, not like me, I felt bad about it.
understands, but I had other things on my mind, more important things.
where Eddie Jett lives, once went to a bash he had going down there. Like I
told ya, he’s hit on me, more times than I can call up right now. I’m going to
use that now. Yes, I am.
entombed over there at The Lakes. You know, super-rich planned community,
gated, keeping the poor at bay. It’s laid out with palatial mansions, man-made
lake, oldsters whacking a white ball around and a boat marina.
The Lakes Club is super private, exclusive,
old widowed broads fucking the tennis pros over by the ball machines. You know,
a living graveyard, a place to hang, just until they kick dirt in your mouth.
everything I need. Mossberg in the trunk, loaded, my walk-around chrome 38 in
the glove box and my Beretta, extra clips. I figured I might need those.
still in my boot, a load of melting bb’s
in my brain, dry mouth, lips, mood, dusk is coming, soon night following. I
like night, that’s where this shadow girl
works best, does her thing, a beautiful thing.
down Tropicana, could a taken I-15, no hurry, it’s building, death, blind fury,
life, it’s really not about me. It’s about the kid.
eaten really solid food for two days. I like that. I like the hungry wolf
feeling, sharpens me, tightens me, an hour til midnight. Seeing a Winchell’s
donut shop, smooth like, I drive in, park and sidle over the door. I need a cup
of coffee, maybe a donut with some pink sprinkles on it. That should set
everything strung tight. You know, like a cue ball melting the black eight into
the corner pocket, game over. Except my game is just about to begin and it
involves guns; lots of guns.
over and night time is here. I take the cell, scroll and hit the button.
Why make it hard, when it can be so easy?
I know the
guy thinks with his dick, many invites to party with him. Let’s take him up on
it. Man, I am so ready to fucking party with him.
doll, it’s Jane, what ya doin’? You been dreamin’ about me?”
cranked, voice all a-stutter, molars grinding, coked out, loud music, voices,
tinkle, tinkle of glasses, he’s real happy to hear my voice. We flirt back and
forth, you know me. It goes like this.
thinking about ya a lot, Eddie baby, heard you’re dropping them dead over there
at The Venetian. What ya doin’ big boy?” Mae West, why the fuck not?
thinkin’ about you, Jane,” I can hear
his dick getting hard. “Geesh Jane, ya want to come over?”
baby doll, in the neighborhood buying donuts, where are ya?”
Voo Doo Lounge Jane, be home later. I’ll call the guard, at the gate, go on in,
you know where my crib is, don’t ya?”
sweetie, I’ll just make myself at home, till rock boy gets home to mama.”
He bellows, I giggle, fight dry vomiting.
rock star, see ya.”
dies as I am certain that something else is going to die tonight. Maybe me,
just don’t care.
easy. It’s always easy when cranked hormones battle testosterone. Every bitch
worth their salt knows that.
minutes later, I cruise up to the guard gate, see a LVPD cop I know. He’s just
one more cop working the night shift, trying to keep his kid in Kobe tennis
sneakers. He grins, I smile back, we chit-chat back and forth. He got the
message from Eddie, it’s all good.
red and white striped elevates. In my calm mind, I know it might be a good
thing a cop’s at the wall, might need that later. I make a mental note of it.
It’s the little things that can keep a girl from the silver table with a
syringe duct taped to her arm.
pal a wave, I drive through the gate and cruise past the last-ditch palaces of
the elite. Blocks later, manicured lawns, opulence, Mexican guys with rakes,
leaf blowers, lawn mowers have made the place pretty. You know the hard working
campesinos these white folks detest
and whose privileged lives would be totally fucked without them.
I hang a
left, stall out before the gate. Eddie gave me the code and I stab the numbers
into the little box. The gate swings open, up the long drive I go. See a black
Bentley, ditto on the color Escalade parked in the circle drive. No Ferrari,
guess he’s not home yet, that’s a good thing.
thinking about all of this and I have a plan. I don’t think I will need the 16
Gauge, so I grab my .38 from the glove box, stuff it into my back waistband.
Not needing my shoulder holster, I stuff my silenced Beretta into my front
waist band, stiletto in my boot. I feel pretty good. I open the door, real
lady-like. I’m practicing for later, step to the bricks and look at the moon.
Umber yellow comes to mind. It’s full, and I’m feeling like I want to bay at
it. Move along girl, I do the stroll in.
out in the entry way, peek up, way up about thirty feet, nod, then look
straight ahead. I’ve been here before, remember most of it. The whorehouse
looks like you could land a B-17 in it, huge, a real mausoleum of bad taste.
It’s obvious that some crazed Peyote strung-out interior decorator pulled out
all the stops decorating it. You know, nothing personal, warm, everything
expensive, no style and no heart. There are loungers, couches, tables, lamps,
chairs, desks, nothing with a pulse to it, everything new and nothing old. The
place makes me want to vomit, again.
figure he will be home for a while, so it’s time to snoop around, my favorite
thing. I’ve got this one word in my head, blinking on and off like red neon,
and that word is:
obvious fucking reasons.
had a donut for dinner, I’m not hungry. So, let’s see, where do people keep
stuff frozen? It’s not like they got an ice house back there near the Jacuzzi.
Oh yeah, the kitchen.
my Beretta, I dangle it by my side. I sleuth to the edge of his vast living
room and groan, for bad taste run
amok is everywhere. Money can’t buy style, class or friends. It can only buy
people that pretend to be your friends.
is huge, all kindsa crap as my eyes fly across the room. There’s an
entertainment center, massive flat screens, two of them, CD, DVD players,
gadgets, racks of CD’s, DVD’s, popcorn machine. I see bowls of nuts on the bar
top, draft beer, bottles of booze everywhere. I’m not here to see a movie, but
I might have a martini later if everything grifts out OK.
down the white tiles, find the kitchen, big chopping block and think of DeSade
again. Good place to chop off a head, or some guy’s fingers, if that’s what gets
ya off. The place looks sterile, bags of Doritos, Fritos, couple a bags of Ho
Ho’s on the counter tops. The guy likes sweets. I see a big stainless steel
fridge, freezer, GE I think. I got
one too, though I can barely boil water. Cooking
is not my thing.
I move to
the fridge, pry open the door, usual suspects, beer and an apple.
An apple a day keeps the doctor away, but not this time. There’s Tupperware, old food, a couple of bottles of
wine, red, white, pink, nothing there. So, I jack the freezer open, a few
steaks, frozen TV dinners, too small of a place to freeze an angel in, never
thought it would be. There’s got to be another freezer, I’m certain. So, I turn
and walk into the pantry, sans utility room.
the left, floor to ceiling, are these blue ceramic washer and dryer machines,
GE again, and there’s that color blue again. It matches the color of the blood
pumping, raging, screaming torrents of my own blood through my Sapphire, hard
veins, directly into my head.
left, there it is, I thought it would be. One of those floor freezers, eight
feet long, four feet high, planted to the white tiles. I really don’t want to
open it. I really don’t want that. What if there’s another kid in it? Don’t
think I could handle that, would have to go berserk. That would never do, just
not yet, that is.
choices sometimes are easy, this one was not. I move to the freezer, lay my
hand on the chrome, open it, take a step back, cold kissing my cheek, face,
lips. It feels like a radiator, cooling down the burning nuclear reactor that I
empty, cold, like her hands. Going to close it, I see something in a corner,
~ ~ ~
the color indigo these days, so I bang my forehead with my silencers tip, just
to stop from going completely nuts, my heart thumping. I calm, exhale, reach
down, and pry my baby’s fingernail from the ice. Swallowing my own bile, I lift
it to my eyes, focus and, then my bod begins to shudder, shake and vibrate out
of its pinions. I go down in a crouch, whack my face in my hands,
hyperventilating. I’m trying to get it together, for good times are coming. I
am positive about that.
Hammers my brain.
a watch, but I can hear the Tick, Tick,
Tick of my violence clock. It’s counting down, thundering in my temples,
throbbing in my neck that is so filled with blood, it just might detonate
before I do.
call Lou; tell him what’s what, and then what?
uniforms, homicide dicks, swat, crime scene kids, tweezers, hair, particle,
fibers, DNA, Luminol, vacuum cleaners, maybe an eyelash left over from the kid.
Maybe they would find traces of her blood, too, and a blue finger nail.
Bull horns blasting.
JETT, WE GOT THE PLACE SURROUNDED, COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP.”
Sure, right, OJ all over again.
Could ya see
it, big money lawyers, graphs, charts, DNA
guys and spin doctors pointing at charts with pointers.
down. Down is up, pathologists and maybe get Alan Dershowitz, maybe that Jap
If the glove don’t fit, you can’t convict.
Yeah, she was just visitin’, sellin’ Girl Scout cookies, a
dirty little whore. Tole me she was eighteen. Who me? She slipped on a banana
peel. I bought her a ice cream cone. Weren’t my fault, drugs, never touch them,
And on and on it would go.
that’s not the way I see it going down, that is if I’m not violently snuffed
tonight. Anything can happen, it usually does, there’s no delusion left in my
life. I guess ya know why. It’s better for me to fight for the kid then to wimp
out like a pussy, not doing my thing for her. I do know that.
I’ve figured out the Eddie Jett play, how it will go down. If it all goes down
like I’m figuring, then I will send Lou a post card, you know.
“Dear Lou, on vacay, the lakes, been kayaking, eating
donuts, having a great time, wish you were here, check the freezer out at Eddie
Jetts, I think he left a blue popsicle for you, lotsa love, smooches, Janie.”
could do that, because I’m not gonna kill Eddie, I mean the hard way, the easy
way. Why? Because I need to get the docs name, you know. I need to get the
fucking savage who sluiced out my little sweetheart’s lobes like he needed them
to make a pizza.
that’s later, if there is a later.
move, and a minute later, I’m in the living room, sneaking around, Beretta
banging my knee. I’m hanging around the entertainment center, that’s what they
call them over there at Wal Mart. All the guys have them. You know, flip flops,
pizza, Tom Brady jerseys, big guts, case or two of Bud, NFL Sundays, with the
guys. Ego-centric, done-nothing mucks, with massive snout egos, no lives, no
futures, no reason to be anything.
cause their mommy’s been telling them from the time they squirted outta the
womb, that little Jimmy is fucking perfect.
Then they moan that no bitch will give them play, which one eventually
will, because she’s stone cold desperate. That’s another tragic American story.
brain is basically an OCD hard drive, I see stuff, in the margins. As me and my
silencer move down the rack of DVD’s, CD’s my silencer click, click, clicking
on them. I see he’s a porn guy, a Disney
flick guy, too.
Little Mermaid, Snow White, Dumbo, kid’s stuff, why am I not surprised. I
fucking cringe, thinking about Missy.
showed her a flick, just before, you know, he cut the fucking life outta her
head hoping to make a human Barbie doll out of her.
tip stops, some custom CD’s, black marker scribbles on them, some kinda code on
them. There’s a about a dozen or so. I get it. I get it real fast because
that’s how my fucked-up brain works.
I see one,
YSSIM, clever, know exactly what it
is. My blood runs cold. I pull it out and it feels like a slab of ice as I
violently inhale a hit of oxygen through my nose.
open the DVD machine, I slot it in, fire her up. Then, the big screen stutters
to life. It’s shadowy in Eddie’s tomb, most of the lights dead in the room. I
grab the remote, stab the button, step back, knowing some horror movie, don’t
like them, is about to debut. It’s one I really don’t want anything to do with.
comes on. It’s a home production. All I can feel is the flickering lights
burning on my eyeballs, my face, lips twitching, as I watch, watch it all.
is, the kid, on his bed. Uncle Eddie is there too. She’s holding a doll, blond
like her, you figure it all out. I can’t talk about it as I feel my donuts
I fall to
my knees, vomit and dry vomit again and then, fingers pressed to my eyeballs,
peeking through them. I see horror, pain, agony blow-torched to my screaming
eyes. Standing, I have to support myself
against a sedan as then:
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”
I blink, blink, blink again.
Turning, there’s Eddie standing there, 6ft 2,
faded jeans, all sinewy and such, cosmetic surgery run amok. He’s bare chested,
bare foot, gut, dyed black hair, holding a plastic bag in his hand. Maybe he
bought me some donuts, don’t know?
He looks like
Keith Richards on a bad day, a very bad day. I reflex, just a little, still
stunned, as my Beretta, on its own accord begins to lift and, then a PISSST”
whistles through the room.
literally can see the tiny wires as they rake towards me. The Taser darts, two
of them spit into one
of my breasts, two red dots appearing; Missy kinda dots.
I yelp, vibrate, shake, my eyes go static,
my brain too, white lights, pain, lots of it and I fall, KO’ed, count of ten.
Then, there is only darkness.
~ ~ ~
“When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you
Anything your heart desires will come true.
If your heart is in your dreams, no request is too extreme.
When you wish upon a star as dreamers do.”
I CAN hear
music, sounds familiar, like from that Pinocchio flick.
that puppet stick kid with the long schnoz, had big dreams, you know like the
kind Missy probably had.
As a kid,
I liked that fairy tale, I guess most kids do. Life lessons, we all need them.
Lying gets you Zinc. I always try to
tell the truth, learned that lesson long time ago.
feel that good and then my eyes blink open and take a sec to focus. The TV is
on, a Disney film, liked most of them too when I was a youngling.
I try to
sitting naked, in a chair, wrists, ankles duct taped to it. My bare feet are
dancing a little. I’m already enraged, doesn’t take long for me, as I’m all coy
and such, peek straight ahead through these little slits on my frosted eyes.
Eddie, near the table, pacing back and forth like a lab rat. He’s edgy,
completely cranked, mumbling to himself, my Beretta in his white knuckles,
plastic bag on the table top. There’s my .38, stilletto, Taser pistol, a
mound of coke, I think, on a mirror, a teaspoon is
sitting next to some DVD’s. Guess we were going to watch a video later, kinda
sweet that. You know, after he sodomized me, fucked the neon outta my eye
sockets, could of been a hoot, I
I want to
be prepared, so I spread my thighs, so he can see the star light exuding out of
my cunt. That usually works, as I kinda clear my throat. He jerks his head to
me, and I purr all demure and such.
what’s up, sweetness?”
pacing, bolts his eyes on me. His jaw is grinding, licking his lips, eyes
stark, wild and wired. His eyes dance all around naked moi, especially that
special place that a man spends nine months trying to get out of, and the rest
of his fucking life trying to get back in.
Eddie, chill, what, you mad at me? Thought we were going to play some tonight,
do some kissing, fucking. What you don’t like me no more?”
I can see
he’s really confused, flipping back and forth between hatred, love, anger and a
dick that in the end will make the final decision for him.
over to me, leers at me, reaches back.
viciously slaps me in the face, cutting my lip.
whips to the side, I see stars and clarity. I whip it back, blood in my mouth.
Grinning, I like the taste of it in my mouth. I need that taste and then purr
baby, now don’t go teasing a girl, handsome.”
real wide-like at me.
back, slams my stomach with his fist.
I feel two
ribs break, I fight moaning, no one likes a moaner. I smile, wet my lips with
my tongue, purr.
If I don’t
get it right, he may beat me to death. So, I chuckle, just a little, tilt my
head, then real cute-like, wink my right eye at him. You know, blink, blink, blink
telling him that’s
where I want it next.
a little fist action, you big super star stud?”
out several times, giggles. I know he thinks I’m a doll, then:
me in the eye, no bone cracks, I’m glad about that. My head rams to the side,
my chin falls to my tiny breasts, and I see red balloons, 4th of
July fire works, sparklers and a blue
finger nail in a floor freezer.
I can feel
blood, it’s warm, straight out of the vein, spilling down my eye, cheek, melon
ball time. I’ve had worse. I actually feel pretty good, but know I, even me,
can’t take much more. So, I lift my chinny chin chin, give him my best blood
stained smile and, then go to work.
think I’m in love…Come on Eddie, I’ve been dreamin about this, you going to
fuck me, or what? I thought you we’re The Candy Man? Come on, my cunt feels
like it could bake a tray a chocolate chip cookies in it. I want it Eddie, I
want it real bad. I think I love you.”
word, the lie always gets the diamond ring, as his brow crinkles, and I see
love in his cranked-out blues. I make sure my knees are spread wide, as he
kneels, puts the Beretta next to my vibrating feet, leers into my eyes and
touches some blood from my lips.
Jane...."I…I didn’t mean to hurt ya…Ahh…I’m sorry…Th…The TV…it…was an
accident…We was playing, things got outta hand…You believe me don’t ya Jane.
Bobby said, you was pissed…real pissed…You ain’t mad at me Jane…You really like
me…I…I mean really.” He pathetically spiels me like Sally Field at the fucking
baby, I’ve been dreamin’ about this, long time. I believe ya, I know, the
little shit balls never shut their yaps, probably got what she deserved. No
problema, are we going to party, or not?”
I want to
vomit, but I’m close. Queen takes king every time, if a girl is clever.
not lying Jane, you really love me?
Blah, blah, blah.
The last thing
on earth I told I loved were my fucking gold fishes Gumbo and Stella, and I
force a tear from my eyeball. You know, just for effect. Guys are saps for
A, I’m ready, shit happens. Hey baby, (I am so into talking street) you gonna
Bogart that coke? Who’s a girl gotta fuck around here to get a toot?”
brightens up, nods manically, slaps his thigh and kisses me on the blue bruise
and blood on my balloon eye. He forgets my Beretta.
Fuck, I wish I could
shoot it with my toes as he stands and says gaily, “Sheesh, where are my
manners, be right back.”
over to the coke, stabs a teaspoon in it, takes a snort, punches his static
finger into it and pushes it all around his gums. I watch as he seems to
vibrate all over, leers at me, walks over and kneels.
the powder to my nose as he shuts down my other nostril with a finger. I
inhale, jolt, jolt, jolt, perfect, a
little pick me up, I needed that. He does the other. I’m feeling better by the
minute, let’s get it over. Falling on his bare heels, he lifts my Beretta,
looks of a honey moon soon to come in
his bleached eye balls.
honey bunny, let’s do it. Let’s fuck. I gotta go see my sick sister at the
trailer park over there in Barstow manana. I think she ate some bad donuts. You
know Eddie, wash cloth on her forehead, hand holding, some chicken soup.”
his brain and dick are warring, me knowing which will finally win. He looks at
me long, hard, then grins.
lyin’ Jane, ya ain’t mad at me…Promise.”
I look at
him in shock.
Moi lie, never. I’d tell him GWB was a fucking genius if
that would get the goddamn duct tape off my purple feet and wrists.
Tarzan, me Jane.” I say real sweet. “Let’s party, mister man. Let’s fuck.”
Baby, if you cross your heart and hope to die and Boy Scout me you won’t pull
the trigger, I’ll let you fuck my ass with that Beretta, maybe some plastic bag
action too. Come on, let’s rough it up. You just tippy toe over there, get
my knife, hit that little button, and
let’s do it, pleeeeease, I’m melting here.” I whine, more tears as I start to
Jane, you’re just the best.”
I go all
shucks on him, giggle and tilt my head at the table at my stiletto. He kisses
me on the lips, I smooch back. He stands, moves to the table, picks up my
stiletto, looks at me. I toss him an air kiss with my cut-to-shit lips. Simply
adoring cute me, he catches it.
Love will fuck you every time.
sweetheart knows that rule so very well, as the tune Love is in the air, air conditions
thru my cabasa.
Mating time is soon. I can hardly wait.
~ ~ ~
hate coke, it was the right thing to do. For I have to remember, he is a man,
sorta a big man, fueled by drugs, a hard dick, and I feel super duper alert. I
smile, as he kneels before me and cuts the tape from my wrists and ankles that
Fucking free at last, thank god, free at last. A great
black dude once said that.
may be Dracula reincarnate, but he’s no dummy. So he stands, backs up, fondling
my baby in his hand as I let the blood COD
back into my feet and hands.
or two pass and there, I’m set, ready.
I hope he remembers that I said I like it rough.
I give him
the Full Monte, stretch real high and hands thrown above my head. I do a little
spineroo so he can see the whole
package. Facing him, I purse my lips. Little girl time, he likes it, a
over to him on my tip toes, press my package
against his junk and touch his face and that hideous black painted hair. I then
give him one of Jane’s blue light special
kisses, which pretty much sets everything perfect.
tastes like ashes from a barbecue, don’t mind, a street fighter needs to know,
as my fingers do a cop pat down checking out his muscle structure. I can feel
his cock pressed against my cunt, as his free hand finds my bump of an ass.
Men, girls just love it.
burnt-out bag of guts, good. I back up, just a bit, smile, blood on my teeth,
cheeks and, then purr like the kitten I am.
to party, mister rock star?”
so fucking adorable, like I mean what could possibly go wrong? He grins at me,
and then wheezes, all happy now and such.
rear my head back and skull fuck his
nose with my forehead.
everywhere, as he shrieks, throws his hand to his face, blood everywhere, slams
back into the wall, moaning and weeping. Of course, I simply watch because I
have a secret.
I’m in no
hurry, for I’m a gal with a plan, a sweet plan. So, I wait for the weeping to
stop. Dropping his bloody hands, he leers at me all rabid and so on. I look at
the blood on his hand and I feel hurt, for all the love is gone from his face.
He snarls at me, lifts the Beretta and points it at my nose and seethes.
fucking bitch, you broke my nose.” He evilly grins, payback in his face.
you.” I giggle, cause I have this little safety secret button on my Beretta.
in case some kid like Glenda, a Goth girl friend of mine, is playing with my
gun, don’t want her to blow a cute little toe off.
I can see
he’s not happy. I just wish I had a little red flag sticking out of my
Beretta’s snout, saying “Bang.” That woulda been perfect.
you said you liked it rough, honey bunny.” I chirp.
“CLICK, CLICK, CLICK.” I moan
as he keeps pressing the trigger.
Now Judo is
a beautiful thing. It’s all about pressure points, joints, and such. I have a
third-degree black belt in Judo, and can take one of those NFL walruses down by
bending his pinkie back.
Eddie doesn’t know that, not just yet anyhoooo. I haven’t erupted yet, because
what I am about to do is going to take a long time. It is going to take a very
simply reach out, grab the silencer connected to my heater. His finger is still
in the lock as I violently rip down, multiple fracturing his finger, taking him
to the ground. He shrieks in very
cool pain and, then begins to whimper like the bitch that he is.
I take my
gun and head-bang him with the butt, very controlled. I don’t want him out. Not
just yet. Splitting skull is fun as he shrieks
again, yips and yelps, gawking at his
finger that now looks like a pretzel.
everywhere. I intended that, mop time later. I do a little dance backwards and
whirl with my hands thrown into the air, teeth grinding, eyes screaming,
feeling wild and crazed. Facing him off as he finally stands, and I lift his
head with my gun barrel tip.
My goodness, if looks could kill I would be a dead bitch,
but they don’t, yet still my feelings are hurt.
I can see
his eyes darting at my walk-around .38, then back at me.
I wag the
silencer back and forth at him, reminding him not to be hasty. I figure
decision making has never been his strong point. He gets it as I do one of
those little backhand finger curl
invites to him. I’m a stylist after all, can’t help myself. Drama, I love it.
He snorts in his rage, blood too, remember I’m a pixie. I mean how hard could
it be to choke the life out of a skinny fairy? I see it in his plate eyes.
I do the
finger curl again, you know, Bruce Lee style, which enrages him. He screams,
shrieks, and rips towards me, enraged.
me and I do a little steparoo to the side. With controlled force, I fist him
three times in the chest, once in the nose as I Judo chop him in the larynx. He
instantly coughs, sputters, wails, or tries to as I grab his wrist, twist, break
it in half and violently flip him up and around smashing his back into the
plate glass of this nifty coffee table his interior decorator got him.
explodes, shatters, as he bellows in pain. The throat shot was perfect. It always
is, as he’s trying to suck O-2 in, wheezing,
weeping, moaning, mumbling, wining
about something again. I hate whiners.
I’m doing one of those The Rock WWF
struts. You know, you see those Hulk Hogan dudes do in the ring, as I watch him
hyperventilating, for my throat chop was controlled and perfect.
Heck, I coulda crushed his wind pipe, killing him
instantly. But where would of been the fun in that?
Coke is a
power-packed fuel, and I watch as he struggles out of the glass. There are
bloody shards staked in his arms, chest, feet, forehead and I can see he’s not
that happy with me.
Well, join the fucking list, buckaroo.
air kiss him again and feel sorta shunned. He doesn’t grab it this time, which
hurts my feelings. He then roars, I mean it’s prime evil and there he goes
again, bull-rushing me.
Oh, me oh my, I’m so scared, tee hee, hee.
me, arms extended, hands like claws, which I move between like a shadow. Feet planted,
I take my palm, and ram it into his nose again. He screams, as I then, fingers
pointed into a Judo wedge, give him a liver
pleasant thing, for if you’ve ever gotten one, well you know, it feels like a
branding iron is melting your liver. Ask Oscar De LaHoya about that.
lots of shrieking, spasms, screaming and
moaning as he goes down. I straddle his arm, take his arm and snap it
completely in half at the elbow, which blasts a bellow of pain from him. I step
back, smiling as I do. So far, so good.
he’s done, but I am surprised that he’s not. Maybe he’s been trippin’
on TCP. That would be an unexpected gift. I hope so.
amigos have told me that they’ve put six
into a guy’s bod usin’ TCP, just kept coming. They finally had to unleash the
big artillery on the dude to finally put, lights
know how long it took for his liver to smile again, but he stood, looking
really bad. He still looked angry with me, and in truth, I was getting a little
bored with it all.
gotten something off the table, so I had to let it out. All of it.
the color blue, I then lost it, shrieked, as my heart, mind finally blew up.
as then I ran completely insane at him, screaming as I leaped on him, wrapping
my legs around his waist, glass digging into me. I didn’t mind that at all.
butted him again, just because I could and tried to eat his nose off his face
with my teeth. He went down as my legs spread-eagled on his waist.
instantly bellowed to the moon, wrapped the plastic bag around his head, snuck
around to his back, wrapped my legs around his waist. I then slashed the
plastic tight, real tight, as I calmed, and his body bucked. He flailed with
his one good arm, slapping at the bag as I seethed into his ear.
little girl, you fucking puke, for Missy.”
out, like I said, I didn’t want him dead, just yet that is. Because I still
needed a name, which I was certain when me and my pals were finished with him,
he would give up.
I duct taped him like a Xmas present, I took a shower.
lips, body and eye hurt, a lot. But it was a good hurt. As I sat there on the
teak bench, just letting the hot water soothe my aches, every ache in my body,
except my mind, of course, ached.
and boots felt good, white gym socks, too, I like being naked, but only when
I’m trysting between the sheets eating pussy with some gorgeous vixen.
I found a
dolly in the garage, loaded Eddie onto it like a sack of turnips. I grabbed my
stuff, and a few other things, loaded him into the Buick’s trunk. I lit up a
smoke, ouch, my lip hurt, didn’t
the door, I stared at some stars. They looked pretty.
my Boston Red Sox hat on, some shades, I fired up my “Betty.” I drove to the
barber poles. I smiled at my cop buddy, he smiled back. Giving him a wave, I
drove away a happy girl.
gone, my mission still not completed. Next stop, a little desert hideaway I
know about, where a man’s secrets can and always are exposed.
the night finally done, I felt pretty good about everything, except my dead
girl sleeping in the Tombs, now and forever.
~ ~ ~
I DID send
that post card to Lou, as well as a CD,
and everything went down pretty much like I expected it too.
the bulls, CRIME SCENE too, swept
down on Eddies crib, snooped around, picked up some of the kid’s hair, a drop
of blood, too. They matched them to Eddie’s semen in her, had the CD, it was a
real feather in Lou’s cap.
He got a merit badge for it, gold star on his cop
jacket, too. You know, super cop of the
Lou made a
speech, kissed some babies, shook the mayor’s hand, and of course never let out
a peep about moi.
sent along ten grand, fat envelop, c-notes
for my cop buddy at the gate.
Lou chatted him up, guy was glad to be mum. US
cops stick together. Hope it kept his kids in sneakers for a long time. That’s
the least I could do for the hard-working dicks
What about Eddie Jett?
Well, that’s another story, a better story, mostly
involving a blow torch, tin snips, copper wire cutters, and a 6ft 6 black
mountain of a man, a dude named Earl, my gangster friend, King’s number one as
an enforcer, and it was fucking beautiful.
Stay frosty, over and out.
Jane, Vegas PI.
Jane…Vegas PI Bounty Hunter, a queer-girl blonde, 5-10 or 11, thin like a
stiletto, a wood-chipper kinda girl, and you, WTF ever, for sure not Tarzan.
forever caught in combat defending my LGBTQ soldiers, animals, girls and women,
the weak, and disenfranchised who are forever being butt-fucked by an odious
Corporate America that has been perverted by a new self-admitted deviant in the
ACCESS HOLLYWOOD Tape.
get me started, for I’ve been completely messed up from my last case, a
13-year-old little girl that was murdered by men, sexual perverts.
been feeling bent cold lately, like a rolled iron loop-de-loop bitch, you know,
like a Coney Island roller coaster, curved in a leap of death, near the pier
pilings, rotting, wasted away from the salt tear drops of an unrelenting army
of a sea's vengeance, crewed by ocean soldiers, no memory, no pity, corroding
soul killers as old as ancient time. I’m
a lost smart-Alec cunt, lately that is, feeling leaderless, no general to guide
me. I’m usually very fucked up, in a good way, but not now, it feels bad this
time and that’s about it. I’ve been feeling like that ever since I seen the
kid, Cissy Smith, 13-year-old dead angel looking like a 98-pound dead, grey
block of lead, over there at the stainless table, in The ICE Tombs, at N. Vegas
I dig it here, the dumpster world, my massive loft, just above Chang’s laundry,
levitating high above the gunshots that wrack this part of bad N. Las Vegas and
the garbage-strewn alleyways where the dead bodies splinter, decomposing near
the dumpsters, near the gang cribs, shoot-up houses, city block thug empires,
held, fought and died for tooth and nail, for no other reason at all, except that's
all they got and that's all they’re ever gonna get.
I wouldn't live anywhere else.
keep having these night terrors, you know, it’s summer, I’m on the boardwalk in
Coney. I’m from the East Coast, originally, know it, you know, snow cones, blood
as the neon that lights the coaster timbers, screeching iron wheels in the big
dip, near the cotton candy vendors and the bumps of the bumper cars. I keep
seeing this 13-year-old angel, white dress, white hair, showing up, then
vanishing, crowds, Ferris wheel, throw a dime on a dish and win a blue moose:
she’s there, then she’s not.
a summer night filled with strolling Chechen's, Uzbek’s, Russian mob guys out
of Perth Amboy, Brighton Beach, The Jersey Shore, ex-cannibals out of the
savage gulags of Siberia, shooting the water pistols for a pink teddy bear for
their screaming kids. It's a surreal world of death, life and pain, and
normally I dig that kind of vibe, but I can’t wake, claw my way out of this
nightmare thing, mostly cause a the kid keeps calling my name, you know.
Jane, Janie girl, come find me if you can.”
move through the crowds, filled with the usual suspects, ghetto gang- bangers,
street hitters, kinda dudes that chat it up with zip guns, duct-taped pistol grips
of Saturday Night Specials gone bad. The place is puissant with Wise Guys,
Mick’s, Greeks, gangster wannabees, Haitians, Hispanics of every ilk and duck-
tailed Puerto Rican pimps turning out their girlfriends for the street life,
and the hard men and bitches that run with them.
know I’m dreaming, can’t abort out, then I see those bare feet, a swish of a
white smock, white hair moving by the carrousel, wooden horses, camels,
elephants, kids on them, gold ring, if you’re quick, gangsters watching, proud,
and there she is again, moving out, and I follow her. I can smell her scent, it
smells like white cut roses, she’s still gaily calling me.
Janie, come find me.”
be a sweetie pie, if she wasn’t stone cold dead.
track her, out of the amusement park, see a light flash of her. I move past the
throngs strolling on the Board Walk, strollers, kids, dogs on leashes, tattoo
parlors, places selling Coney dogs, foot longs, mustard jars, relish if you
want it, kids are eating pink cotton candy, there she is, on the white sand,
moving towards the decaying pier, I follow.
Janie, come find me.”
can feel the sand, quenching between my toes, zingo, she’s gone, underneath the
pier, some guys dropping lines in the salt, above me, guess they don’t mind
mackerel stuffed full of Mercury. I can smell her, there’s that flower scent
again. It’s kinda dark under the pier, salt water on my toes, as I move into
little blond girl, in the shadows, don’t blame her, lights are bright in the
Ice Tombs. I see her, I think, and then my mind goes bright, illuminating her,
my eyes dead bolt open, as the light, that fucking light exposes her, the new
smiling, and she’s white, dead paste white, naked, purple, red cat-gut holding
her tiny womb together, her forehead is missing, brains spilling out like
worms, stacked in her hands is a bouquet of burning black flowers. Why the fuck
is she smiling at me, as I try to suck air into my thundering lungs, can’t
stand, fall to my knees, salt water, not the sea, spilling down my cheeks. I
raise my arms to her. I want to hold her, protect her and then she whispers to
me, driving a bullet through my heart.
Jane, why Jane couldn’t you protect me? Why did you let them do this to me?”
lips mumble, tremor, body vibrating, I shriek, bend, pound the sand with my
fists, then I wake, in my loft, the skylights high above, it is raining, eyes
stark like bullet casings, hyperventilating, terrified, irate, slapping at my
bruised face with my hands, clawing at
it, trying to rip her face out of my brain. My two zipper dogs stare at me, 3
cats too, Stella and Stanley my gold fish at the glass, hoping I don’t self-immolate
stay alive because they love me and I love them.
dead angel with burning wings was my last case. I couldn’t save her, but I’m
already down the ABC’s of men and a woman that did this thing to her. Two I
already put in a coffin, there are more, I’m working down the list.
evolution will come full circle, it always does.
moves, I calm, it’s a Zen thing, reach to an old pine table, love English
antiques, next to my old iron rung bed, can barely get a Marlboro out a the
pack, do, find my Zippo, tough girl stuff, my image, am so sick of image, light
it up, shove it between my bruised lips, ribs, black swollen eye, broken nose.
Eddie Jett the ex-rocker pervert that butchered the kid did that to me when I
took him down. He left me beat to hell, but the real pain comes from the
futility in my mind.
wince, drag, watch the smoke filter thirty feet up to my skylights, rain
banging on them, get it together, just a bit, throw the white down comforter
back, then groan, seeing all the blue welts, black and blue, on my no breasts,
tiny tummy, legs, arms, and the two red dot Taser dots on one small tit, just
like the ones on Cissy over there at the cop’s morgue.
nightmares, they mean something, I think they’re telling me I have to do
something, something else with my crapped-up life. I love who I am, toe to toe
with life, take no prisoners, rumble, mix it up, generous with the poor, I
give, but maybe not enough. I screw the pooch, get a beat down, so what, but
it’s a fucking honest life, my life.
look around my five-thousand-foot loft, it’s filled with the stuff I love, pine
floors, grooved, pegged, sanded, did it myself. English pine everywhere, armoire’s,
tables, benches, over-stuffed couch, with leaf green cushions, Persian rugs on
the floor, big bay windows showing the Vegas Strip, lights off in the distance.
Antique lamps, one a Tiffany, a Dom Nancy, another a Handel, others from the
twenties, strung beads falling down the base, blown colored glass, vases,
flowers, got this sweet Hispanic doll of a cleaning lady, Armida. She brings
flowers, puts water in the vases, makes my clothes clean, puts tulips in my old
vases, makes the place nice, she even feeds Stella and Stanley, my gold fish,
puts out the chow for my two dogs, three cats, probably the only thing I will
allow myself to love, my animals.
to fall in love from the numerous girls I fuck, that’s how fucked up I am.
a stuff about me, folks in Vegas don’t know.
a white queer girl, was a vacuous beauty doll once, not really by choice, just
to see what was what, you know, use what you have, still have pics of me when I
was a young shallow thing. I glance at them sometimes, you know, just to
remember when I could break a girl down from a single glance from my blues,
still do of course, have an insatiable sex drive, try not to mix work with sex,
fail sometimes. Am a pro, which is important.
I love fucking girls, eating pussy, was a shallow free bird once, until I woke
up, got out of the self-induced coma I was in.
is an ass-fuck thing, so what, so temporary, do fucking something with your
life, except tweaking your eyebrows, doing your nails, mirror gazing, ya know,
feel, hurt, help the disenfranchised, the poor, the homeless, that’s what I try
someone besides yourself. I’m really, really trying to be that girl, I really
time to kick it, avoiding my duty, my pleasure, to make things right for the
feel like Manny Pachio thumped on me all night, can barely peek-a-boo out of my
swollen right eye, cuts all over me, every bone, 2 semi-cracked ribs, muscle,
aches, really aches, every time I move, which turns me on, geez Jane, just get
eaten in three days, thought of maybe a donut, maybe one with pink sprinkles on
it, am down to 116, that’s even thin for 5-10 moi, secretly I love it, still
fighting the eating disorder wars, once binged, purged, wanted my smile intact,
gave it up, smart thing to do, teeth are important.
the dead kid got me thinking, why I can’t commit, why I can’t fall, you know in
love, egads, it’s hard to get that word past my lips. You know, get something
real in my life besides my beloved gold fish, my pooches, my meows, but I
cringe thinking one day my gold fishes, flip on their sides, their bug eyes
opaque, like Cissy’s.
detest myself right now, self-pity, questioning who I am, needy, pathetic, and
almost crippled, for my body feels like it got hit by an ice crème truck, aches
everywhere, sore, inside and out.
really could use some softness in my life, maybe a little love, gag thinking of
that word. I feel girlish. Pleeeease, geessh I’m blubbering, maybe I need love,
I don’t know, but something meaningful, TLC for real, man I hope this mood
jets, like real soon.
I got to get out of this damn bed, didn’t sleep, checked for the pea under my
mattress, no pea, so I move, wince, jeesh.
feet on the floor, face in my hands, “Ow, ow, ow” I stand, weave, blink, “Ow”
even that hurts, grab a smoke, fire her up with my guy Zippo, inhale. I’m
smoking more lately, who cares, decide to skip the gym, riding my bike, move a
few steps, my ankle hurts like fuck, look down, its swollen, when in the hell
did that happen?
limp to my armoire, full length mirror, groan looking at me, which mimics the
white smoke trailing to the ceiling, thin, wispy-ish, cut short white hair, giant
green eyes. I love making up words, wispy-ish, tee-hee, unconstructed of form,
pale and pallid, this is as thin as I’ve been in a long time, fuck I look like
a teenage boy, sans acne.
I still get carded when I go to the liquor store.
INSIDE, not really bitching about that.
little steps, I turn, limpidly dick click across my loft, move into the shower,
bathroom, I built myself. Went to Home Depot, talked to this cool geek, love
geeks, was one, still am, just hiding in this shallow eco-skeleton of gorgeous
skin, sure does me a lot of fucking good. Which reminds me, I’ve promised ME,
that I am going to work on my potty mouth, you know, make me a new girl, a
know for sure that I’m going to fucking work on that.
bought me some home improvement books, a tool belt, two actually, if you
include my handy dandy sex tool belt.
Chang’s pickup truck, love that dude, rustled up some Mexican honchos, love
those folks, speak fluent Spanish, they appreciated that, I’m kind a proud of
that. Loaded Chang’s banger, tiles, lumber, all the stuff, then had the Mexican
guys drag it upstairs, gave them two hundred bucks in tips, got those white
smiles, fuck where would America be without them?
I was done, I looked like a frosted sugar donut, shit all over me, but look,
she’s a beauty, huge stall, black tiles, grey tiles edging all of it, as well
as two stripes of grey tiles, double brass nozzles, two teak benches, lots of
room to wiggle my tiny toes.
like to sit when I shower, masturbate, jerk off, (Jill off?) love the feeling
of hot water after I’ve forgotten to bathe for a week, shave under my arms, it’s
always a girl retreat for me, you know shave the legs, clean up down there, had
that lasered, so that’s never a problem. Got a toothbrush, some shampoo, you
know in those plastic squirt bottles, some soap on a rope, and now, MAN, that
hot water feels just so fine.
love washing blood offa my body
with good manners do that, I know I do.
of the shower, feel better, a little, ankle totally Whammoed, grab a black
towel, have them layered in the black cabinet I made, black, grey, black, grey,
the steam from the mirror, lean in, groan, my eye looks like a black and blue
mushroom cap, lips swollen, cut, eye brow too, Eddie Jett packed a punch, think
of Eddie, wonderin’ how he’s getting along with his new coyote amigos in the
desert wonderland I planted him in, don’t know, am sure it will all work out in
out of the bathroom, “Ow” my ankle, move to a pine armoire, avoid mirror
gazing, grab a pair of cut at the ankle white dance leotards, Danskin, pull
them on like a second skin, grab a white hoodie. I’m into white this morn, feel
all virginish, all new and such.
it on, exhale, hear the rain smacking the skylights, need coffee, it’s cold out
this morning, limp to my kitchen, same deal, black, grey tiles, big pine
chopping block, four gas burners set in it, cabinets, stainless steel sink.
can’t cook for fuck, moi built all of it, there’s that horrible, horrible
to my coffee machine, pop the lid, put one of those white things in, move to
this stainless towering fridge, GE, I think I mentioned that, wizards there
make great stuff, open it, groan. I see two ancient cartons of Chinese takeout,
dim sum something, noodle zingo something, see the green kiss has arrived;
grab a can of coffee, Brazilian, back to the coffee machina, that’s Mexican for
machine, load her up, hit the button, lean against the chopping block, watch
the drip, drip, drip of the golden-brown life-saving liquid as it fills the
my “JANE is RAD” coffee cup, had it made special at this little souvenir clinic
over there, across the street from the Venetian, they do t-shirts too, you know
like with “Shit Happens in Vegas” stenciled on them, boy does it ever.
I said, I’m in one of those chill moods, so I limp out of the kitchen, grab my
smokes, Zippo, the one with the Jar Head insignia on it. I move to this set of
double massive ceiling-to-edge bay windows, set into the chassis of the loft,
facing the alley, and another artist’s loft, two-story affair just about a
hundred feet from mine, alley separating both of us.
open the windows, the cold feels good on my face, rain is sweet, rare in Vegas,
set my tiny, sore ass on the stoop, bring my knees to my chin, light a smoke,
sip my Joe, then take a peek-a-boo at a very magical place, the open window at
this African-artist-goddess’s loft across the alley from me, more about her in
glance left, look down the alley, no dead bodies, no crack whores, that’s good,
then see the once-vacant lot, where a Mexican circus has staked their claim to
a piece of Vegas sod. Showed up a coupla months ago, economy had tanked, and
they somehow got a license, guess some commerce is better than nothing. They
threw up the red, white tents, lots a games, booths, you know, throw a ring on
a coke bottle, roll a softball, make tic, tac, toe, something only some grand
yogi from Tibet could do, no harm, no foul.
got this miniature Ferris wheel, lots of neon blinking, a loop de loop, kids
puking, screaming, having a hoot, a pony ride, I think they’re ponies, not like
the kind I see at the track. But, the kids like them, guess that’s what counts.
moseyed over there one night, lots of Hispanic kids, parents, tios and tias,
the Hispanic community is tight, God, religion, family, food, never can figure
out what all the brew ha ha is about these fine people. They’re the backbone of
this racist nation, won’t go into that now, though I can go off on the subject
at the drop of a Peso.
a blind elephant, that fucker could eat some peanuts, also a camel, two humps,
not three, some sheep, goats, a llama, a donkey, in a pen, they call it a Kids
Zoo, don’t know about that. They had a lion in a cage, he seemed like most of
the residents in Vegas, pissed, stoned, wasn’t roaring, just kept pacing back
and forth, leering through the bars, big yellow eyes, angry eyes. Thought of
sneaking over there late at night, springing him, get him a one-way ticket back
to Zimbabwe, make him happy, maybe fuck the other girl lions, something like
that, but didn’t.
got a thing for clowns, and it is not a good thing, they give me the spooks,
you know, grown men, make up, sandals, wearing funny clothes, hangin’ with
little boys and girls, making them laugh, touchy feely stuff.
that’s it, I get it, that’s where all those defrocked Catholic Priests go,
after they get bounced from the parish after they get caught with their frocks
down around their ankles. Don’t know why I never put two and two together
before, makes perfect sense to me. Anyway, back to the black artist Ghanian
goddess across the alley.
secret, I have this sexual current running non-stop through my blood veins,
complicated as they are all trying to connect to my cunt, a screaming Mimi,
hey, that's funny, fuck even that hurts when I
giggle, for I'm tired of jacking off lately in my new blue mood, where
did I put my hand gun.
I have to get out of this self-pity abyss.
though, there is only one woman I want to fuck me blind, well a few girl types,
you know like Glenda the stunning young tattooed Goth check-stand doll at The
Bent Club, but that didn’t count, because well, she was Glenda.
could eat pussy like some kinda Belize jungle Jaguar that just chased down a
Boa and that did go a long way with me. I did go nuts, when we rolled in the
sheets a few days ago.
course, that's her, the artist across the way, over there in another two-story
loft, top floor, Kiko, is that a cool name, a black sculptress, stone and
granite, marble too, welder artist woman so obsidian black beautiful she melts
my mind. She’s corded muscles, thin, shaved head, about 6ft 1, maybe 140, white
teeth like the marble she blasts her chisel into. She has this tribal scarring
on her face, back, fuck, I wet up just watching her, which I do every moment I
showed up about a year and a half ago, which was a very good thing, voyeurs,
god I’m ashamed to say I am, but I am, there said it, are sick girls. I mean I
don’t sneak around looking in windows, you know like Chang down stairs at the
think I would die dead seeing Chang fucking Seshi, I know they do it, four kids
to prove it, but some things are better left to my imagination, like what Kiko
would look like totally naked.
not like the fucking God woman doesn't have a boat load of female beauty type
girly-girls hanging around her cut, muscled bod. Christ I've seen them come and
go, come and go, none of their tooth brushes ever stay the night, see the dawn.
often lay in my bed at night, windows open, listening to Monk, Miles and Cole
Porter creaming across the expanse from her loft, making the summer cool,
bearable, nice for me. Christ, I love that black girl, really I do, cringe as
that word again clanks like an anvil to the floor.
on Kiko Later.
finished my smoke, gotta snooze, more updates in a bit, will dream about Kiko
tonight, YAWN, I’m out.
hoooo, boooohooo hooo”, just kidding.
passes, it always does, hidy, Jane, been feeling pretty good lately, lots a
reasons for that scenario.
here on my window stoop, again, big window doors slotted open above my alley,
smoking a smoke, sipping a tulip of Burgundy, French of course. I’m feeling
summer coming, you know, like that purgatory haunt, that place those bent
catholic priests always told the kids they were going to burn in for weenie
wackin’ after they watched that Paris Hilton porn tape, for the bizillionth
a little sad, but not really, no Monk coming from Kiko’s loft, the place is
locked down solid, you know like Mother Teresa’s womb. Like magnets, we hooked
up one rainy night, she staring at me across the loft expanse, curling her
finger at me.
is so fly, I was helpless, obeyed, me figurin’ I’d be the good little passive
girl for the moment.
an eager puppy, I hippity-hopped right over there, and even my body was bruised
and beat to Sodom, we had sex for like, a week, and I may have fallen in love,
a no no no for me.
one moment we almost used one of those Amazon drone thingies to same day drop
off a gallon of K-Y Jelly, but we made it through.
she got me off the hook, by exiting stage left.
off to London, the trendy wharfs, to show off her statue at a private show of
her bling, cool thing, one being gorgeous half women/dolphin holding a world
globe on her head, stunning that. Then she skipped off to West Africa to see
her kid brother. He’s another brilliant wedge of white teeth, black skin, and
big brains. Helped her crate her thing up between volcanic sex and many dildos
used a lot of bubble wrap, not for sex, though I did think of her wrapping it
around my head as she fucked me, but to pack her art, love that stuff, can sit
and pop ’em for hours, don’t know why.
been going swell with Kiko, for the last weeks or so. I guess we’re girlfriends,
me still the girl, she being the fella, found some feminine traits I had lost,
but it’s just role playing, me being still a hard doll, more like me every day,
not in her arms though, it’s been a hoot.
sex is nuclear, we throw the word love around, a bit, you know, cum, sweat,
gritted teeth, torrid, banshee insane, lots of fist fucking and such, say
anything when a gal is like that. But, we know it’s a kinda love, the only kind
two super independent, genius savages can have, and that’s all good with us, no
owner ship, lots a down time from each other.
really does make the heart grow fonder, but I do miss her.
I’m nursing my wounds, on down throttle, waiting to sew up this Cissy case.
Meaning there still are men responsible for the little girl’s murder.
will take care of that soon, big fucking time.
got my new Smith & Wesson catalogue, that’s it right there next to my bare
feet on the ledge. Sent me a calendar too, big sucker, put it up in my PI
office, had this babilicious doll on it, g-string, huge tits, Dow Chemical made
‘em, lots a blond bottle hair, hard body. She had these two cartridge
bandoliers, 9 MM slugs in it, I think, covering her tits.
was holding a 50 caliber semiautomatic Saw, Seal rifle, near her collagen lips,
a coded message there for the guys. You know, (buy this machine gun, this girl
will suck your cock). It’s the most powerful weapon in the world, might get
one, though the recoil could break my wrist; gotta ask my Seal buddy at the gun
range about that.
giggle again, cause my toes are sneaking out of my most fav faded Levis, broke
my promise, didn’t get rid of them, even though they were blue, like Cissys
dead fingernails. They’re just too comfy, am sure Cissy would understand. I
think of her blue fingernail I found in the freezer of the guy who raped her,
then murdered her.
still have that, part of my plan for later.
got ripped up knees, gained two pounds, now 118, so they’re not falling off my
stick hips, that’s good, feel warm, cozy in my black hoodie, no virgin white
while my girlfriend is away, I’m saving that for her.
No. No. NO…Geeesh, no girlfriends Jane, pleeeease.” I mumble to myself.
riding my Japanese mountain bike to Gold’s gym again, pumping iron, watching
these young tricked-out show girls, boys too, running on treadmills, doing
Pilates, a zillion crunches, lifting weights, trying to keep the grim reaper of
age from killing them with his sythe, which of course fails, for he always gets
YA in the end.
time I was there, I was forced to take care of a little bidness, you know for
Sandy at the reception desk, a real looker, who I totally dig, and she digs me
too, vanity again, eeeks, I love it, why not. The manager Todd there, a pal
too, loves my mojo, geez, can’t help if everybody loves moi, I’m just loveable,
can’t help it.
a sweet stud, and runs a tight ship, and he’s put these signs up everywhere,
that say, “Please don’t drop yer weights.”
reasonable to me, but there always has to be this GUY, you know the type you
always see strutting around the gym like a cock-a-doddle doo rooster.
always about a 5ft 5, or 6, pumped up on steroids to about 175 LBS, always
decked out in the latest gym togs ya get over there at the Sports Authority,
great place, got my tennies there. They’re always lifting big, black iron and
such, grunting, screaming out shit, then slamming down the barbells on the
black rubber mats, huge thuds, gym rattles, then they bang their chests, pose
in the mirror.
they’re looking at, but don’t know, is a real asshole.
Todd talk him up, Sandy too, he blew them off, did a fuck you whatever thing,
went back and did it again. I want to go over, kick him in the nuts, grab him
buy the ear, slap him to the mat, get in his face, and say something like, “Fucking
wake up, read the signs, try to be a decent fucking human being for the first
time in yer life”, but I don’t, cause I respect Todd and Sandy.
chit-chatted up Sandy last time, she said the dead beat was late on his rent,
wish they could do something about it, but lawyers and such, everybody litigates
for anything these days, said I got it, maybe I could help. She smiled, gave me
the secret decoder Buck Rogers hand shake, we were on the same page.
I lit up my Apple machine, Photo Shopped up a picture of the gym, made this
bogus card stock, and then wrote him this note.
you fucking ego maniacal little dwarf, (Nothing against dwarfs, there cool
people too) get off the juice, grow your tiny dick back, stop dropping the
weights, WAKE THE FUCK UP and get a life, or we’re going to bury ya under a
cactus in the desert.”
signed it the LVPD.
was obviously bogus, so I covered my bud’s ass at the gym and well, me being
real sneaky at times, slid it through the crack of his locker, went and straddled
a stationary bicycle, peddled a little, then just waited.
immediately texted my cop buddies in the parking lot.
human plant went off, went insane, came out of the locker wearing a white
towel, dripping water, screaming at Todd, Sandy, threatened to kill them,
everybody else in the gym, just as two plain clothes “Bulls” from N. Vegas Vice
walked in the door.
best friend is Lieutenant Victor Garcia, Las Vegas N. Metro. Cops call their
told him about my little situation at the gym, he said, no problema, Janie.
had the Bulls parked outside, ready Betty to go.
know me, I know them, they love my street creds.
these two huge black cops, decked out in kickback Armani saw what was going
down, tried to calm the fuckwad, he called them “Pigs” might a whispered the
no-no word Nigger and you know, he’s got rights and such. Well, the cops kinda
smiled, and then chopped him into kindling wood, real hard like.
don’t like being called “Pigs”, don’t blame them.
then levitated him, one on each arm, his towel fell off, and there were lots of
giggles, for I was right, the guy’s dick looked like a licorice stick, the
juice does that to a punk.
called a blue and white, threw him behind the cage, cuffed him, got some
hosannas from Sandy and Todd, went in to slaps on the back, lifted iron, seemed
happy about everything, for once again they had set the rebalance back to life.
course, I got tons of gratitude from Sandy and Todd, said aw that ain’t
nothing. Two days later Sandy told me the puke had about a million warrants out
for his arrest, and I guess she and Todd got a gold star on their work sheets,
that made me glow.
gave both hard working kids envelopes with 500 bucks each, you know, just in
case I had caused any problems.
like it when good things happen to good people.
I’ve been thinking a lot about life lately, you know, what I do, why I do it,
Cissy did that for me. I try to be a good person, don’t run red lights, litter,
got these blue trash recycle containers, put cans, plastic bottles in some,
card board in others, try to help the poor, which reminds me, got to take the
fifteen grand Flick’s bounty, a monster Lesbian with a bounty on her head I
took down the other night at The Bent Club over there to the homeless shelter,
run by this stud, real good lookin’ priest named Father Bob. He’s a Jake guy,
like him a lot, ditto, he likes me too, feel good about that.
never lie, well almost never, you know, Chang’s wife down there at the laundry
might ask me for an update on her new hair doo, that looks like she’s got a
coven of crazed bats nesting in it. I smile, say something like, gee Seshi,
(that’s Mandarin for totally fucking insane) ya look great, lost ten years,
gotta give me your hair dresser’s name, which makes her feel pretty good, me
too, nothing wrong with a little white lie, nothing wrong with that at all.
what’s really got me wired, is the really ghastly men, women I take down, me
being the fixer of such things and all, and why I do it, came to the decision,
if I don’t, who in the fuck will. Figured it’s a Kafkaesque world now, spooky,
eerie, lots of evil, up means down, vice-versa.
figured most of it out and everything is just too fucking politically correct,
makes no common sense at all.
sick, perverted old degenerate, living in an Air Stream outside of Tulsa,
eating beans out of a can, steals some sweet little kid, terrorizes them,
brutalizes them, rapes them, then puts them to bed alive in a homemade coffin
next to his double-wide.
fucks up because he’s run out of crystal meth, the cops get him, he spills the
beans, than fucking what? The system swoops down, they lawyer him up, get a
bunch of psych heads, show ‘em some ink blots, have him touch his nose with his
finger, ask him if his dog died when he was a kid, hold his fucking hand, cop
an insanity plea bargain. Then, the puke goes to a fed lockup, gets three hots
and a cot, hangs with other vermin, lifts weights, plays B-ball, watches Oprah,
and has never been happier in his life.
that don’t fix it, for who’s talking for the kid? Who’s holding the kid’s dead
cold hand, like I did with Cissy’s? And, what about the parents, they don’t get
an all included paid vacay to Danbury, they get a life of pain, tears, grief
and nightmares, just ask John Walsh about that.
why I took Eddie Jett down, like I did.
it was violent, even gruesome, use that word, cause this doll I know, real
bright light named Fawn, met her at some party one night, turned me on to it
when I was pissed off about all those little girls wearing vest bombs over
there in Iraq. You know, in a coma, pushed, prodded by the elders, then blowing
themselves up in a fire ball of shame.
didn’t quite get it. I was ranting, and she said, chill Jane, it’s a party,
don’t be so gruesome. I went off because I figured someone should stand up for
the kids, tell their story of pain, for what’s more gruesome than some little
girl vaporizing herself for no reason at all, that’s another story, never a
pretty story, to be told later.
chide myself for going off, again, back to why I do what I do.
I like it, I like fisticuffs, testing myself, mano e mano stuff, fucking
dangerous, and do this thing cause someone has to stand up, like I did against
Bobby O’Brien and Eddie Jet,t the deviants responsible for slicing up a 13-year-old
has to say enough is enough, and yeah, it’s ultra-violent, ugly, messy at
times, but I don’t do it because I’m a sadist. I do it because if I don’t, who
my fucking duty to do it.
SAID, there’s still more to report.