I'm angry. You should be too.

One

The place is called The Cactus Café. It’s about a mile from the motel. From the outside it looks like every other diner\bar in every other town.  Inside it’s the same; a bar on the right side with an open window to the kitchen.  The bar looks to seat about 15 people.  There are four booths along the left side.  A large plate glass window sits above the booths allowing the patrons to enjoy the scenic beauty of a seemingly endless vista of prairie.  I’m the only patron just right now.  Just me, Stew, the man working the bar, and a nameless cook, peeking out of the kitchen window every now and then. The view from my booth, the last one, briefly made me question if I were still on the Earth or had been magically transported to some other diner on some other planet. The illusion is broken by the growl and blur of a car speeding by on the highway.

This is Wellington Texas.  I’m here for a job.  I kill people.

On this particular day in this particular town I’m here to kill a man named James Horton.  He’s the back president of the Wellington State Bank.

That’s all I know.  All I need to know.

I’m staring at the remains of my lunch, a too-tough, too-dry chicken fried steak with matching too-tough, too-dry French fries. The only think not too-tough or too-dry was the beer.  It was wet, languid, and almost painfully cold.

When he had served the food, Stew had given a slight shake of his head as if to say “Sorry, I know it’s not very good.” But when he placed the sweating bottle of beer down, not to the side of the food but directly in front of me, he had stood there for a second until I looked up into his eyes.

The jovial, easy-going look on his face (that I had assumed was permeant) was gone, replaced by a look of serious intent.

“We take our beer seriously here.” He said, nodding.

I hadn’t been sure what to say. He had been standing there, seemingly waiting for something.

“Sure.” I had said, also nodding.

It must have been the right thing to say.  He gave a slight smile, nodded and turned back to the bar.

I’m on my third beer now, killing time.  I look up at the clock over the bar.  One forty-five.  The bank closes at 3:30.  Horton will stay till five or so.  His wife will pick him up and they’ll drive to Childress for dinner.

They won’t make it to dinner tonight.

I’d made the drive to Childress a few times earlier in the day.  It was a lonely, two lane road with very little traffic.  There was one sharp left turn overlooking a steep ravine.  The railing had been insufficient even before I cut through the rotting wooden posts holding it to the ground.  One little bump from a passing car and Mr. Horton, and his lovely wife, will take one last roll down to the rocky ravine floor. I lose the car in the Amarillo International Airport parking lot and I’m home by just after midnight.

I’m thinking of just how the Amarillo International Airport can justify that particular title when the bell above the front door announces another prospective customer.

She walks in, and without breaking her stride to the bar, glances at me, then looks back to Stew.

“Hello Mrs. Horton.” Stew says, smiling a little too big and nodding. He’s already reaching underneath the bar when he says “Your usual?”

Her smile and nod were somehow both cool and friendly.  “Yes please Stew.”

He places an expensive looking cut crystal lowball glass on the counter along with an unopened bottle of Johnny Walker Blue.  He opens the bottle and carefully fills the glass half-full.  She smiles at him as she takes it and in one fluid motion, raises the glass to her lips and drinks it dry, not too fast, not too slow.  Just right.

“Oh that’s good…” she sighs as she places the glass on the bar with a slight click.  She nods Stew half-fills the glass again.  She picks it up, glances at me, and turns the stool to face me.

Mrs. Horton I’m thinking, Might be more than one.  But part of me knows.  This is the Mrs. Horton. His wife.

She’s tan, with slightly dark blonde hair, softly curling to her shoulders.  Her shirt is a soft gold plaid men’s dress shirt, slightly too large. It’s open at the throat. Her shirt tails lie on loosely fitting, old and faded jeans.  Well-worn but highly polished boots finish the picture. Overall, everything looked very comfortable.

Her eyes were impossibly emerald green. They seemed to softly glow in the hazy light of the diner.

“You’re staring.” She says, breaking me out of my all-too focused attention.

“Sorry” I said, not looking away.

She smiles and cocks her head just a little to the right.

“May I have another glass Stew?” she says without breaking eye contact with me.  Stew looks confused and rattled. But then he reaches under the bar and puts another glass, a twin of the first down on the bar.  She takes the bottle and second glass in her left hand, slides off the stool and glides toward my booth.

She puts her glass, the bottle, and the other glass on my table, and then slides into the bench seat opposite me.

“Mind if I join you?”

“No.”

Her smile seems to blink, just a hint of confusion, uncertainly, then the confidence returns as she picks up her glass and slides the other one towards me.

“Please help yourself” she says, just before taking a sip. I reach for the bottle, fill my glass about a quarter full, and return the bottle to the table. I pick up the glass, nod and tilt the glass towards her.  She returns the nod and the glass tilt and sips again.

I sip the rich, brown liquid and gently lean my head back, letting the whiskey roll around in my mouth, like cool molten vapor.

“You like good whiskey?” she says, smiling and cocking her head to the left.

“I do.” Taking another sip and rolling it around in my mouth.

“I do too.” She says and takes another sip. She swallows and looks out of the window.  Her gaze plays across the desolate landscape.

“You don’t talk much.” She says, like a question, turning her eyes back to mine.

“I don’t” I say and take another sip.

She looks at me silently for a while.  Then she takes another sip, smiles, and says “Good.”

She looks through the window for a long time, the smile leaving her face.

I look too, trying to see what she’s seeing. The room is quiet.

“Do you have a room at the motel?” she says, not looking away from the window.

“I do” I say, looking back at her.

Without looking at me, she nods and says “Let’s go see it.” She gives me a quick smile, knocks back her drink, and slides out of the booth.  She keeps the glass.

“Bring the bottle.” She says, walking towards the door.

I do.

We walk from the dry summer heat into the too cool air of the room. It’s dark.  I put my glass and the bottle on the dresser and move to turn on a lamp.

“Leave it.” She says reaching down to slide a finger along the foot of the bed.

“Does housekeeping make the bed this early?” she says.

“I made it.”

She looks at me, gently puzzled.

“Habit”

She puts her glass down on a side table and walks towards me.

“Too bad.  We’re just going to mess it up.” She says, her eyes looking seriously into mine as she approaches.

“Are we?” I say as her hands go behind my head and gently pull my lips toward hers.

“Yes, we are.” She whispers just before her lips touch mine.

Her lips are warm, soft, and nearly liquid as they gently work mine. Her body seems to press into mine.  She takes one hand from behind my head and coils it around my back, pressing herself into me.  I envelop her with my arms and pull her even closer, feeling the heat and soft strength of her embrace.

Her lips pull away from mine to let out a whispered sigh.  Her lips return with renewed passion and not a little hunger.

I stop thinking.

 

Two

 

It’s dark and the road is empty.  I’m parked on the right side about two miles from the curve.  It’s 5:40.  They should be along soon.

The events of the afternoon play through my head like some sort of fever dream. There was a part of me that didn’t believe any of it had actually happened. Maybe it hadn’t.

A dot in the rearview mirror, quickly growing larger.  It looked like them.

It was.  I started my car as theirs flashed by. Just a blurred shadow, but I had no trouble seeing  It was her. My tires screamed as I power onto the highway, fishtailing slightly before the tires grip.

I’m about a quarter of a mile behind them, going about 80 and losing ground.  I punch it and speed up to 95, gaining ground now.

I’m close and I can see them now. Her attention is on the road.  She never looks back or at the figure next to her.  He’s just sitting there, his head lolling back on the seat; drunk or asleep.

I see the curve ahead and make my move.  Just before I pass, she quickly glances in the rear view mirror.  I see the green glow of her eyes flash at mine and then return to the road.

My car moves beside theirs, both cars speeding down the dark road.  There’s the curve.  I punch the gas and jerk the car to the right, hitting them hard near the driver’s door.  Their car lurches through the useless railing and disappears.

I turn around and make my way back, parking on the side of the road opposite the broken railing.

I look down the ravine and see the broken car sitting on its side, still and silent except for the hiss of the radiator.

I make my way down to make sure

 

Three

 

The plane back to Dallas was nearly empty.  I had plenty of time to think, to remember.

I remembered the way she smelled, the soft, unknown fragrance that she wore.  It seemed, even now, to linger.  Impossible as I had stripped, showered, changed my clothes and burned the old clothes.  The fragrance wafted through my memory, fresh and unencumbered by time.

But mostly I remembered her look.  I had seen it twice.  Once in the room just after we were finished.  I had gone to the head.  When I returned, she was lying on the bed, quietly looking at the picture on the back wall.  She had the look then.

She also had it the last time I saw her.  Just before my car hit, time slowed.  Her head turned and her emerald eyes locked into mine.  Her face was sad, lonely, and distant.

But the message in her eyes was emerald-clear:

Remember, they said Remember.

            I will.

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Another unfinished experiment. Surprisingly not porn.)

One expects many things from the Royal Suite at The Mandarin Oriental.  Self-indulgent luxury, the pinnacle of affluently-sensitive service from attractive, eternally-smiling staff members, food and drink of a quality and quantity that would entice the Greek and Roman gods to blush, and last but not certainly least is a final bill not significantly smaller that the GNP of several second world countries.

The one thing a guest might not expect is to open the door of their sumptuous suite to find a very attractive, very confused, and very naked man sitting on the extremely expensive Guiddenlott designer settee.  Prudence paused only a moment before closing the door, stepping to the antique side table beside the door, and depositing her handbag and keys. She then looked back to her unexpected guest.

Many possible statements, questions, and exhortations flitted through Prudence’s mind, but the most appropriate and safest seemed to be “Can I help you?” She said this with an open, caring smile with only the slightest suggestion of confusion in her eyes as she took two steps towards him.  Her very specific and carefully thought-out movement was for two reasons: one to at least give the appearance of not feeling threatened and also to allow herself some free space to the rear just in case she needed to make some quick yet extravagantly defensive maneuver.

She need not have worried. The man smiled and his face clouded with even greater confusion as he looked to his naked feet.  “I hope so.”  He said, raising his face to meet her eyes, which had only momentarily glanced at the gentleman’s extremely impressive six-pack and then to the even more impressive personal equipment below. “I really do hope so.”  His voice faltered and he slowly shook his head, as if he could not believe the words coming from his own mouth. “You see I don’t know how I got here, and worse, I have no earthly idea who I might be!” His gaze returned to her eyes, as if he they might hold the answers.

Prudence smiled her most encouraging and comforting smile.  For she knew exactly who the man was and had a fair idea of exactly why he was here.  Now, she thought, if only I could come up with some way to explain all this to him without getting us both killed.

The invitation had arrived at her New York apartment two weeks ago.  Davis, her butler, cook, chauffeur, maid, handyman, and occasional accomplice in various illegal but well-intentioned activities brought it to her breakfast room on a silver platter.   “Well aren’t we formal this morning?” She said taking the heavy envelope and examining it.

He nodded. “It seemed to be appropriate. Very heavy paper and elaborate calligraphy.  Someone knows how to send an invitation.”  Prudence pursed her lips slightly as she took the jade Faberge letter opener Davis had thoughtfully placed on the silver tray and carefully slid the blade under the envelope flap.  She paused a moment and glanced back at Davis.  “Hmm… No return address.  Care to make a guess as to who might have sent it?”

He smiled. “Certainly, whoever it is, they aren’t local. I’d guess European, probably British.  They do seem to have a predilection for formality.  ” She smiled and her voice took on an ever so slightly teasing lilt. “Predilection,  you’ve been working on your vocabulary.” He returned the smile with one as dry as a PJ Clarke’s martini. “I try to do service to my station whenever possible.”

She looked at the envelope and then back at him.  “Anything more specific?”  Davis sighed, glanced downward momentarily and looked back up.  “It’s probably your cousin Winston. It’s his style or what he might consider to be style.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly.  “His name’s not Winston” she said, rather unconvincingly. Another very dry smile from Davis. “It should be.  He thinks of himself as the next Winston Churchil.” He remarked.

Prudence shook her head, looked back at the smiling butler, opened her mouth, closed her mouth, frowned slightly, and then smiled.  “I suppose he does at that.” She said sheepishly.  “Ah well, nobody’s perfect.” She sighed, and then smiled. “Present company excluded of course.”

“Yes miss.” Davis said, nodding graciously.  “Would you care for more coffee?” She shook her head. “No thank you.  I’ll read the invitation, if that’s what it is.”  He nodded and turned to leave the room.

She removed the letter opener, placed in on the table, and examined the envelope one last time, turning it around in her hands, feeling its heft, even sniffing it.  “Can’t be too careful these days.”  She sighed, picked up the letter opener and slit the top of the envelope.

She was not gassed, poisoned, infected, exploded, or otherwise injured.  She was however, slightly disappointed. She withdrew another, very similar unsealed envelope nestled within the first.  It also had no return address.  Just her full name: Prudence Meredith Smythe, no address.  This envelope contained the guessed invitation, several sheets of protective tissue , and a round-trip, New York to London Virgin-Atlantic Upper Class ticket.  The ticket granted one Prudence Meredith Smythe chauffeur server to and from her apartment to either JFK or La Guardia and, in London, to and from Heathrow.  It also offered a phone number or weblink to arrange for any departure date in the next month.  “I’ll say this for Reggie.. he does know how to send an invitation.” She thought.

Next she looked at the invitation, printed in the same calligraphy as the envelope but with a much less common message:

Who: Miss. Prudence Meredith Smythe.

What: Is invited to a formal Costume Ball.

Where: The Carlyle Room, Royal Mandarin Hotel, London.

When: Whenever the fair lady desires within the month of August 2014.

Dear Miss Smythe, Please forgive the immediacy. But your attendance to this event is most important. Please reply at once via wire.

Yours Very Truly, Sir Reginald Davis Smythe, NH,TC.

Her forehead wrinkled with interest as her gaze rested on the curious letters “NH, TC” following her cousin’s name.  Most people would assume them to be certifications of some kind. She knew otherwise.  These was alerts. “NH” meant “Need Help” and “TC” meant “Take Care.” It meant that Reggie was in over his head (not an uncommon situation for him) and that Prudence should take extra care as the situation involved serious personal danger.

Not for the first time Prudence felt herself come alive with the electric mixture of anticipation, curiosity, and excitement.

She looked back to Davis and smiled.  “What do you think? Fancy a quick trip to London?”

Davis returned the smile and nodded. “London in the Springtime is always a pleasure. I’ll make our travel arrangements. Today or tomorrow? Prudence looked back at the invitation.  “Hmmm… tomorrow I think.  I do so hate to rush. Let’s get an early start.” Davis nodded and spoke.  “Considering Sir Reggie’s “Take Care” message, it might be prudent to travel separately. It seems as though he thinks someone nefarious might be watching.”

Prudence pondered Davis words.  “Probably a good idea.  Why don’t you go ahead and make my arrangements to depart tomorrow evening.  That way you can depart in the morning and have plenty of time to disappear. Use British credentials and fly into London City rather than Heathrow.”

Davis nodded, “Yes miss. I’ll reply per his instructions.” He bowed, turned and left. Prudence read over the curious invitation one last time, laid it down on the table, and then rose to leave the room.

She spent the rest of the day packing and making various other preparations.  Her luggage would contain none of the highly suspect and definitely illegal tools they would use.  She trusted that Davis would have everything transported and in place in his usual almost magical manner.  She had a late lunch and spent several hours with her personal Aikido trainer, honing her skills and pushing herself much harder than usual.  She had a light dinner and retired to her bedroom where she meditated for two hours before going to bed.  She slept fitfully, too excited to relax completely.

32 hours later, 8:16 AM London time, she was in Terminal 1 at Heathrow, looking for Clancy, Reggie’s personal chauffer. Normally she would spot his huge, 6 foot 7 bearlike figure moving through the crowd, his chauffer’s hat cocked just a bit to the right, beaming a welcoming smile. Today he was nowhere to be seen. Prudence felt silent alarm bells begin to sound in her head.  Something was wrong.

Through the crowd a young man pushed towards her.  He had a very welcoming smile and was dressed immaculately.  She recognized the singular cut of a Gieves & Hawkes suit.  The charcoal double breasted jacket and matching single-pleat trousers fit perfectly. She noted his black leather boots.  Gucci she guessed, and thought that odd. The alarm bells in her head rang a little louder.

“Miss Smythe?” he spoke as he approached her.  She nodded, smiled, and spoke. “Is Fred sick today? His face clouded slightly as he answered.  “You mean Clancy.  No, he’s fine.  Sir Reginald had him run a personal errand. Right this way please.” He said, reaching towards her.

Her internal danger sense was now ringing off the scale.  His Northern London accent was very good, almost perfect. But her ears detected the effort he made to mask his own true accent. Yet, her face was quite composed as she smiled and started to walk towards the young man.  She stopped suddenly. “Oh!  I forgot my luggage!  I’ll just run and get it.” He moved quickly, catching her arm with just a hint of force. She turned a surprised face first to his hand holding her elbow and then to his still smiling yet somewhat serious face.

“I’m sure Virgin has already arranged for your luggage to be transported to the Mandarin.  If you’ll just come with me I’ll have you there in a jiffy. “His grip on her elbow tightened just enough to be slightly uncomfortable.  The hold was expert, putting pressure on the two most sensitive parts of the elbow. She allowed herself the instinctive elbow hold break, twisting her arm first up and then under and around his, breaking his hold quickly and cleanly, while taking two steps back. “I don’t think so.” Her voice was low, but its steely tone carried well enough to startle several people standing or moving by.  Most looked, sensed a situation they wanted no part of and moved away.

The young man’s smile fell and was replaced with a determined blankness as he moved towards her.  “Please don’t make a scene miss Smythe.  If you’ll just..” his sentence was unfinished as he seemed to collapse, first backward, then forward, being held up by Davis, who had magically appeared from the crowd behind the man. “Sir!  Are you all right?” Davis said, his Northern London perfect, as he held the man up.  “Please help!  Can someone help?” Two airport police, their uniforms perfect, appeared, one from the left and one from the right. Both performed a quick, single nod to Davis who returned the nods and then nodded once towards Prudence. They took the young man off into the crowd.

“Are you all right miss?” Davis said smiling, his eyes darting first right then left, indicating caution.  He took her arm and seemed to steady her.  “I’m fine, thank you.  Although I do seem to have missed my chauffer.” She said, looking into his eyes for any other message.  Davis smiled encouragingly.  “Sorry about that miss.  Perhaps he’ll be along presently” he said, nodding twice. “Yes, that’s a very good idea. I’ll have some coffee and wait for him.  Thank you!” She nodded her understanding and thanks. “Don’t mention it.” He said, touching the bill of his hat and moving away.  “Enjoy your trip to London!” He said happily, moving into the crowd.

Prudence walked to the nearest AMT coffee, ordered a large cappuccino, and then returned to the arrival area to wait.

She was halfway through the coffee when she saw Clancy’s towering figure enter the terminal and begin to scan the crowd.  She rose and began to walk towards him. His face broke into a beaming smile when he saw her.

As she approached him she noticed a small plaster on his forehead.  She also saw some bruising around his left eye.

Prudence allowed her great affection for this gentle beast to overcome her.  She rushed into his arms and hugged him. Clancy was surprised and not a little embarrassed as he somewhat awkwardly patted her back. Finally, she let up her embrace and pulled away, holding fast to his hands.

“What happened to you? Are you all right?” she pleaded.  He smiled and shook his head. “It’s nothing miss.  Just a bit of a cock up, If you’ll pardon my language.” As he spoke he looked up and scanned through the crowd, taking her by the arm, and gently leading to the terminal exit. “Why don’t we get out of here?  Never did like Heathrow.  Just too fookin’ busy, pardon my language. “ Prudence smiled and shook her head.  One the things she adored about Clancy was his constant colorful swearing, followed immediately by an apology.

Clancy paused just before they exited the terminal, oblivious to the numerous irritated and frustrated people following behind them. His face clouded slightly as he spoke. “I have to apologize.  Because of the little incident this morning I’m not driving…” She saw his eyes shade with pain and half expected the giant man to break into tears.  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and continued. “I’m driving a piece of shite, pardon my language, that they gave me.” Without another word he turned and guided her through the exit.

They walked briskly through the crowd to a waiting area marked “Busses Only – No Other Vehicles”. As they approached the car parked there, Clancy smiled and nodded to an airport policeman leaning against the vehicle. “Thanks Jaime.  I owe you a pint or two!” The policeman smiled, stood up, and raised his head in greeting.” “Anytime mate” He then looked to Prudence, nodded, and touched the bill of his hat. “Maam” he said as he walked away.

Prudence paused a moment to take a look at the “Piece of shite” as Clancy had called it. It was actually a Bentley Mulsanne, either a 2014 or 2015 model.  Prudence now understood the reason for Clancy’s distress.

Clancy, knowing Prudence’s preference for riding in the front seat, guided her around to the left side of the car and opened the door.  Prudence seated herself and Clancy closed her door.  She sat back in the seat, fastened her seat belt and waited for Clancy. He opened the door, seated himself, closed the door, fastened the seat belt, and started the car.  The powerful engine came to life with an understated but still impressive roar. Clancy snorted softly, looked to his right then pulled out into the lane.

Prudence waited until they were out of the airport chaos to begin to question him. “Tell me everything Clancy. Please.” He nodded and took a deep breath. She knew better than to expect him to spare her even the quickest glance.  Clancy’s gaze never left the road when driving. He sighed and began to speak. “I was on the way to the airport to pick you up. Traffic was crap o’course.” Prudence smiled.  Apparently “crap” didn’t quite rate an apology. “Anyway, I was comin’ down Stockley, about half a mile from Shepiston when it happened.”

Clancy shocked Prudence by actually glancing in her direction.  “Whoever they were, they were good. One came at me fast from a side road on the left.  I dodged him mostly. He clipped us a bit on the back left but I held it together.  We were ok.”

The big man steeled himself before continuing.  He took another deep breath and exhaled very deliberately. “The other one came from the right.  We were back in control but he hit us dead on in the front corner.  It spun us around and my blame head hit somethin’ and I went out.” She put her hand on the big man’s shoulder and squeezed.

He continued with a shake of his head. “It was nuthin’.  I’m ok. But she…” his voice began to break and his eyes filled. “She’s…. They… “ his voice choked away to nothing.

Prudence like hugging the huge man but could only squeeze his shoulder. “It’s all right.  I understand. Shawna.  How is Shawna?”

Clancy again took a very deep breath and exhaled slowly. He took several seconds to steel himself and continued. “My Shawna.   They hurt her bad miss Prudence.  Real bad.” His eyes filled again and his body shook in silent weeping.

Prudence squeezed his shoulder, then reached into her purse, pulled out a silk handkerchief, and handed it to him.  Clancy nodded his thanks, took the handkerchief, and wiped his eyes. Another deep breath and he continued. “She’s bad, but Sir Reggie has been great.  He’s promised me he’ll spare no expense to make her right.”  He nodded, as if trying to convince himself as much as Prudence. She continued to squeeze the huge man’s shoulder and shook her head as she thought about Shawna and how much any injury to her affected Clancy.

Shawna, the total and absolute love of Clancy’s life was a 1973 Bentley T1 Four Door Saloon. Clancy Emerson Chatwin III was a private chauffer, as his father had been, and his grandfather. All had driven Bentleys.  The first Clancy Chatwin had driven the 1947 Mark VI door standard steel sports saloon throughout most of his career. The second Clancy began his career with a 1962 Bentley S2 standard saloon and ended with the 1973 Bentley T1 that ultimately became known as Shawna. All three Clancys had served as the private chauffer to member of the Smythe family.

As the Smythe family seemed to be genetically inclined towards danger, intrigue, and adventure, so did the Chatwins. They demanded consistently exception performance from the vehicles they drove.

Shawna had served Clancy the second heroically. He had come to depend on and love her as much as any member of his family.  He had passed her on to Clancy the third which great trust and love.  He had trusted his son to take great care of his Shawna, and he had trusted her to take great care of his son.

“Anyway, I was out for a bit.  When I came to they were gone and the police were just arriving. The cops had already contacted Sir Reggie and he sent this monster..” waving his left hand in a circle, indicating the Bentley, “ as a stand in.” He snorted.

 

(WARNING: This is porn, pure and simple. It was an experiment and is unfinished. It is explicit. Proceed at your own risk.)

 

Connor woke to the soft vague light filtering through the window blinds. He lay, eyes closed, enjoying the heaviness of the bedclothes, the subtle blend of softness\firmness of the mattress, and the cool air for a few moments.  Eyes still closed, he stretched, and then lay with his arms to his sides outside the bedclothes.  He took several deep breaths and mentally took a quick physical inventory. Right leg, left leg, midsection, chest, right arm, left arm. All ok. The head last. Ouch.  Just a shade, a hint of a headache, like a flimsy bad memory of the previous night’s excesses.

He swept the bedclothes back and vaulted out of bed.  He crossed to the left floor to ceiling window and opened the blinds.  The harsh morning light filled his eyes and head with momentary brilliant pain.  Shielding his eyes with his right hand, he squinted till the pain washed away. He then moved to, opened the middle window, and then the right. Lake Travis lay before him, quiet and serene in the hazy morning light. A clear blue cloudless sky topped the lake.  Another perfect Austin day awaited him.  He tried not to think of the cancer-like boredom that ate at his center.

Dropping to the floor, he began his exercise routine.  100 pushups, 100 abdominal sit ups, and ten minutes of leg lifts. He breathed deeply and regularly, slowing his heart rate as he put on running attire.  Dressed and ready to run, he stepped to the suite door, opened it, and stepped into the small hallway.  Eva, the resort’s owner and operator, looked to him, and smiled as she climbed the stairs in front of the entryway.

“Morning Connor.  Breakfast today?” she said, still climbing the stairs.

Connor shook his head.  “Not today Eva.  I’ll get it in town.”

“Have a good day then.  See you later.” She said, turning away.

Connor walked across the entryway to the front door.  He opened it and went outside. The warm, slightly humid August morning air flooded over and around him like just too warm bathwater. He stopped on the landing, closed his eyes, and breathed in the sweet smell of honeysuckle.  “Man, that smells good.” He thought and smiled. “But it always smells so much sweeter after my run.” He nodded, opened his eyes, and went down the short run of stairs to the paved road. He quickly went through his stretching routine and began fast-walking up the road’s incline.

An hour and twenty minutes later, covered in sweat, he walked back to the stairs and climbed them slowly.  His breathing was easy and controlled. Again he paused in front of the door, turned to the entryway rail, closed his eyes, and took in the sweet honeysuckle scent. He smiled as the wonderful soft fragrance seemed to fill his entire being. A thought, a nagging, dark spot on the otherwise perfect morning, intruded and nearly erased his runner’s high.

“Best part of the day and it’s over.” He thought, just the hint of a scowl washing over his face. He forced the thought away as if waving away a bad smell, took one more deep breath, let it out, and turned to the front door.

Connor Dain was 42, in excellent physical and mental condition (for a man of his age or otherwise), twice-divorced (both very amicable, still the best of friends), no kids (a little regret there, songs unheard), countless girlfriends, women, all affectionate, almost-loving, compliant, eager, and ultimately immaterial. He had many buddies, drinking, carousing, canoeing, cavorting, and not one true, good friend on whom he could depend. He was not overall happy.

A lifetime’s smart and hard work now afforded him the luxury of doing whatever he wanted to do, going where ever he wanted to go, with whomever he wanted.  Thus he wanted to go nowhere, to do nothing, with no one.

This place, this small piece of Italian hill country, somehow situated in the hill country just west of Austin, was his one and only, never-miss happy place.  When he was tired, spent, used up, unhappy, hurt, or lost he came here.  And it made him better.

Until this time. He felt better, but not healed. All this floated through his head as he opened the door and luxuriated in as the cool inside air flowed over him.  He stepped across the entryway towards his suite, his thoughts still dark and oddly anxious.

There was an envelope on the floor in front of his door. Curious, he reached down and picked it up. The address and return address were both done in what looked to be hand-lettered black florid calligraphy.

Connor Dain
4545 Outpost Way
Austin, Tx, 78732

The return address.

Club Qandisa

Nothing else.

“Something exciting I hope?” Eva’s voice broke through his rapt concentration. She was, as seemingly always, on the stairs, always going up or down, just in time to see him, and smile her knowing, yet distant smile, and say the oddly right thing.

“I don’t know.” He said, turning the envelope around, staring at the blank back.

“You weren’t expecting it?” she said, pausing as she came down the stairs.

“No. As far as I know, no one knows I’m here.” He looked up at her and reluctantly began a question, knowing the answer. “You didn’t by any chance….” He let the words fall off.

Her smile widened and somehow radiated both mischief and honesty. She shook her head.  “You know better.” She turned, conversation over and continued down the stairs.

He opened his mouth to offer an explanation, an apology, but the moment had passed. He closed his mouth, opened his door, and stepped into his room.

Inside his suite he stood, looking at the envelope. First one side and then the other, as if he expected the words to change, morph, or expand into details and explanations.  They did not.  He looked at the two word return address: Club Qandisa.  The database of his memory searching, searching, yet coming up with nothing.  The name, the words meant nothing to him.

It took every iota of self control and will not to rip open the envelope and plunder whatever waited inside.  Waited for him.

He dropped the envelope on the night table and walked towards the bathroom, his thoughts a rush of wonder and guarded anticipation.

Connor sat and toyed with his breakfast.  This was his favorite meal, the only one he had always preferred to enjoy without company.  Normally he feasted, slowly and intently, savoring each new bite, new texture, and new flavor.  Today it seemed none of the food had any flavor or fragrance.  He hurriedly tossed his knife and fork onto the table, roughly brushed the napkin across his lips, and scowled.  For the second time this morning Doris, his usual waitress appeared at the side of the table, bending over slightly.

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong hon?” She said, her tender beauty roughened by the worry evident on her face. He sighed, looked up at her, shook his head, and smiled.

“Nothing wrong with the food.  Perfect as always. I’m just distracted.” She nodded, straightened up, a wide, radiant smile growing on her face.  She winked, somehow simultaneously suggestive and demure, turned and moved away with just a touch of wiggle in her stride.

He smiled and watched her walk.  “Someday.” He thought. “Someday I’ll accept that subtle invitation.” The smile left his face as he turned his attention to the envelope laying just to the left of his plate, protected from the rest of the room, secret, and waiting. He stared at it for several moments, his mind swimming with questions, hopes, and vague excitement.

He sighed and picked up the envelope, looking at both sides one final time before solving (maybe) the mystery that waited within.  He looked down to the table and picked up his knife from breakfast, examining it, he set the envelope back down, took his napkin, and carefully wiped the knife clean.  He dropped the napkin on his forgotten plate, picked up the envelope, and carefully slit the top part open. The knife, only butter sharp, moved through the paper with maddening resistance. Still, he refused to be rushed, even by his own anticipation.

He blindly dropped the knife on the side of the plate and looked into the envelope.

It contained a single item, what looked to be a business or calling card. He retrieved it and dropped the now forgotten envelope. The face of the card contained only the two now very familiar and insanely curious words:

Club Qandisa

He turned the card over and was rewarded with more, although precious little more information. A phone number, in the same florid script, centered on the back of the card, with more, slightly smaller, florid script below:

Text only: Yes or No
Voice calls will not be answered

He stared at the words for a long time, looked up, sighed and dropped the card on the table. “Enough mystery.” He thought. “Let’s find out what this really is.” He pulled his phone from his pants pocket and opened up a browser.  “Club Qandisa” he thumbed into the virtual keypad and searched.

No exact matches found, but there was a Wikipedia entry for Qandisa.  He pulled it up and stared and the words.  “Something here.” He thought, hoping. “Maybe something here.” The words, inviting and frightening, seemed to stare and challenge him from the tiny screen.

“Qandisa (Qandiša) is a female mythological figure in Northern Moroccan mythology. Known in folk tales either as a goddess of lust, or simply as a female demon.

Qandisa seduces young men and then drives them insane.”

Reading the words, the last line seemed to burn into his eyes, into his soul.

“Qandisa seduces young men and then drives them insane.”

He stared at the words, his brow furrowed, for several seconds. Then he sighed, closed the browser and opened up his VPN app to connect securely to his home network.  Data packets virtually flew across the state to Dallas and did their bizarre and particular secure dialog to ensure that whatever information he typed or saw, was for his eyes only.  His secure connection established, he reopened the browser, and typed in a cryptically long and elaborate web address.  A login screen was presented and he entered in his username and password, which were accepted.

Connor was now connected to the most elaborate, comprehensive, up-to-date, and highly illegal database on the planet. This particular and highly secret service advertised, discretely of course, and to a highly small list of clients, access to any and all information that exists on any and all databases on the planet.  It had never failed him.  The monthly fee he paid for access was more than most middle managers earned in a year.  He keyed in his search: Club Qandisa.

This particular service did not provide partial or inexact information.  It searched and found information directly related to only the exact words entered, excepting for capitalization.

The search displayed only three words:

No Results Found

Connor could hardly believe what he was seeing.  Never before had this service failed to find something, if even the most insignificant scrap of relevant information.

No Results Found

He closed the browser, the VPN app, and started to put the phone back into his pocket.  He paused and his gaze moved to the card, laying, waiting on the table. He picked it up, looked at the phone number on the back, typed it in, and texted a single word; Yes, and waited.

And waited.

He dropped the card onto the table and started to put the phone back into his pocket when it buzzed a reply.  He did not breathe as he read the words on the screen.

Tonight 9 PM
1005 Nile Street
Park bench north of Gazebo
Dress casual and come alone
Don’t be more than 5 minutes early or late

 

Connor was reading and re-reading the words, memorizing them, when suddenly they vanished, replaced by other words: Message expired.  He was momentarily terrified; afraid he had lost this one, uncertain, yet enormously exiting opportunity.  He closed his eyes and was relieved to see the message returning from his visual memory.

He wondered vaguely how he would spend the rest of the day.

Weeks later, when thought of the time, between receiving the message and beginning the adventure, he found that he had no concrete memories of how he passed the hours. It was as if they had vanished, erased from his life.  This did not bother him at all.

Connor sat on the park bench.  He had taken a taxi to the edge of park and waited there, checking his watch much more often than necessary.  He had arrived at the park bench at 8:56 exactly.

Now he waited.  It was now 8:58. The park was not really large or small and in the middle of a quiet somewhat upscale residential neighborhood.  The houses were very similar and all had green, even in August, well kept lawns.  He waited.

It was dark in the park but the street was well lit by street lamps at the corners and at regular intervals on the side. As he looked to the corner to his left he saw the lights of a car approaching from the distant darkness.  As it reached the corner, it came out of the fog of darkness into the light; a long black limousine, its windows blacker than any night. It pulled up to the curb and stopped, the sound of the engine little more than a whisper.  The whisper suddenly stopped and after a moment he heard the door open.  A tall man rose from the opposite side of the car, his head perfectly bald and shiny under the street lamp.  He looked both ways before closing the door and walking to the back of the car. Connor heard a soft click, the doors of the limo locking, he assumed,  but saw no keys or anything in the man’s hands.  The man was smiling as he slowly strolled closer. He was wearing a black suit, red and blue patterned tie with a dark blue pocket square.  He walked easily, unhurried, and relaxed.

Connor rose and began to walk towards the driver but was halted by the man’s right hand, rising slowly but deliberately, clearly meaning “Wait”.  The driver nodded once as he neared Connor

“Mister Connor Dain?” he asked, his tone somehow saying “I know, but I have to be sure.”

“Yes.” Connor involuntarily croaked, his voice strangled by nerves and tension.  As he cleared his throat the man’s smile widened and he nodded, as if to say “Don’t worry, happens all the time.”

“Yes.  I’m Connor Dain.” His voice now confident, strong, and certain. The man nodded and casually stretched out his right hand.

“May I see some photo identification please? Thank you. You understand.” His voice friendly and relaxed.  Connor fumbled out his wallet and offered the man his driver’s license and a debit card imprinted with a picture he hated. The man took the license.

“This will do just fine.” He smiled and nodded.  As he looked at the license, his eyes went blank and cold.  His left hand went inside his coat and retrieved what looked like a 3 x 5 glossy card.  He looked carefully between the two several times, his smile slowly fading. Connor felt a strange discomfort, an anxiousness that seemed to scream “It’s me!  It’s me!  It’s really me!” Time seemed to stop.

Finally the driver returned the card to his pocket, smiled, and handed back the license.

“Very good Mister Connor. Thank you very much.” He turned to his right and waved his hand towards the limo. “Shall we go?”  The driver then started walking towards the limo. Connor returned his card to his wallet and followed.

The driver walked to the back right side of the limo.  There was another soft click the driver opened the door, turning his head to smile back at Connor.  Connor nodded his thanks, entered the darkness of the back seat, and was about to additionally and nervously voice his thanks when the driver spoke. “You’ll find an envelope with instructions and other things in the seat facing you. I hope you enjoy yourself Mister Connor.  The door clunked shut. Through the dark windows he was the shadow of the driver walk around the car.  As he approached the door, he again glanced both ways before opening the door and sliding into the seat.  There was a dark glass barrier between the passenger area and the front.  Connor felt the vehicle softly rumble to life and pull onto the street. He felt only the gentlest of swaying as the car gained speed.

Connor took a moment to close his eyes and take a deep breath.  His heart was hammering and it felt like there was far too much blood flowing through his body.  The air in the limo was very cool and rich with the intoxicating smell of leather and something else, very faint.  He breathed deeply, working to identify the soft, sweet fragrance.  Finally, the answer moved into his mind’s eye: Honeysuckle.  Faint, so faint he wondered if it were simply a trick of his memory, an odd expectation.  No, it was there.  Faint but real and oddly disconcerting.

The rich cool air, full of fresh leather and soft honeysuckle seemed to calm him and slow his heart.  Within moments he felt relaxed enough to open his eyes and look to the seat in front of him.

He saw the envelope laying on the seat, a small basket just to the left of it. He picked up the envelope and opened it.  Inside, there was a single, silky piece of paper printed on one side with the same script as before.

 

 

 

Instructions
1. Please place all personal effects (wallet, phone, etc) into the envelope and seal. You must take nothing with you. Seal the envelope and leave it on the seat.

2. Open the basket. Take the hood and use it to cover your head.
3. Press the button on the arm of the door to indicate that you will follow all instructions.

If you fail to follow all instructions, the driver will stop, expel you from the car, and leave.

Club Qandisa

Connor didn’t hesitate to return the sheet to the envelope, his cell phone, and his wallet.  He sealed it and placed it back on the car seat.  Then he opened the basket.  The smell of honeysuckle flooded the air.  He smiled, bringing the hood to his face.  The scent was strong, but just shy of overpowering.  He closed the basket, slipped the hood over his head, sat back, and ran his right hand across he arm rest, searching for the button.  His fingers brushed across the smooth leather and then brushed a round, cold metallic ring with a smooth slightly domed surface in the center.  He firmly pressed the button and heard a satisfying buzz.  He released the button and almost immediately heard a clear, yet tinny sound; the voice of the driver over a speaker.

“Thank you Mister Dain.  Please sit back and relax.  We’ll be there in about 30 minutes.”

Connor laid his head back on the soft leather. He found himself dozing, almost sleepy. The rich sweet smell seemed to move through his body, ease, and erase every possible tension.  He let his mind wander away and dozed the rest of the trip.

He was nearly asleep when he felt the limo turn sharply, sliding him sideways to rest against the door.  Then the limo slowed and finally stopped.  He heard the low whine of a motor and a soft clanking sound, first above and then behind.  The crackle of the speaker and then the driver’s voice; “You can take the hood off now mister Dain.  Please just toss it on the seat.” As he straightened up and removed the hood he heard the driver open and then close his door.  He shook his head and looked around. Through the shaded limo windows he saw a dimly lit room, three bare white walls and a door to the front right. His door opened and he looked out and up to the driver holding the door. The driver smiled and nodded.

“Your things will be safe here. Please follow me.” Connor slid his feet around and exited the limo. The air in the garage felt dry and fairly warm. The driver jerked his head slightly down.

“The hood please.” Said the driver. Connor realized he was still holding the hood.  He tossed it onto the limo seat.  The driver closed the door and walked towards the door.  Connor followed.  The driver walked to the door, knocked three times, turned to face Connor, and stepped to the side. Connor paused, unsure of just what to do.   The driver bowed his head slightly and waved towards the door.  Connor stepped up to the door just as it opened.

Cool, almost cold air flooded out as the door was opened by a tall, slender, and smiling woman.  She had long red hair, bunched softly around the shoulders, and brilliant green eyes.  Her skin was surprisingly dark as if deeply tanned.  Her dress appeared to be very thin pleated black silk with a v-shaped neckline and thin spaghetti straps on the top of her shoulders.  The driver softly cleared his throat and spoke, jarring Connor from his momentary rapture.

“I’ll see you later mister Dain.  Enjoy your visit.” He then nodded and gestured for Connor to proceed. Connor smiled, nodded, and stepped forward.

The woman smiled and bowed her head slightly.  She spoke, her voice deep and rich, with just the hint of an accent, perhaps Italian, Connor thought.

“Welcome mister Dain.  Please come in.”She said, waving her hand to the entryway.  Connor smiled and nodded, stepping through the doorway, past her into the small hallway.  As he moved past the woman he caught just the hint of rose.  The soft smell was rich and warm. The hallway was about 15 feet long with a high ceiling.  He saw no visible lighting, perhaps indirect, he thought.  Every wall surface was covered in rich, beautiful tapestries, all depicting a different erotic tableau.

He turned to the woman as she closed the door then turned to face him, extending her right hand. “I’m Alicia. May I call you Connor?” she said, inclining her head slightly to her right with the question.

He smiled and nodded. “Very nice to meet you Alicia and please call me Connor.” He raised his hand to hers.  Her handshake was dry, firm, and warm.  She held his hand for just a moment after he had released his.  “Thank you Connor.  I’m so very glad you accepted our invitation. This way please.” She stepped past him and lead to the end of the hallway.  The rose fragrance washed over him as she passed close. There were three doors, one to the left, one to the right, and one in the center.  She strode to the center door and stopped, looking back to him with a soft smile.

As he followed, Connor saw that each door was painted white with a black lacquered plaque set at eye level.  Each plaque had a different word or phrase lettered in gold script.  The one to his left said “Sappho”, the center said “Teicu”, and the one to his right said “Tu Er Shen”.  As he stepped up to Alicia he gestured to the doors. “These are..” he said, letting his question trail off.

“Different persuasions, shall we say.” She said with a warm smile.  “This one is yours.” She knocked three times on the center door and stepped back.  Conner heard muffled steps and then the center door was opened.  Alicia gestured to the woman who had opened the door. “This is Luciana.”

Luciana had straight raven black hair, just topping her shoulders, dark skin, and pale blue eyes. Her dress was identical to Alicia’s except that it was dark red, a shade lighter than burgundy.  She was slightly shorter than Alicia with a much fuller, voluptuous figure. She nodded to Alicia and then to Connor, stepping back to allow him to enter.  Her voice was low and throaty, with the same hint of an accent, perhaps Spanish or Mexican. “Please come in mister Dain. “

Connor stepped into the entry way of a large suite of rooms.  As he passed her he noted the same rose fragrance. Looking ahead, he could see the open French doors of a large bedroom ahead.  To his right was a smaller room with several overstuffed wing chairs and couches set in a semi –circle around an octagonal coffee table.  There was a large fireplace opposite the seating area with a large fire set and burning.  At his left was an even smaller room with one small couch facing an ornately carved coffee table.  A bar stood against the wall to the left of the couch, a white closed door to the right of the bar, and opposite the couch was a large floor to ceiling window looking out onto a lush garden, now bathed in moonlight.  He looked back to Luciana, who had just shut the door and turned to him, extending her hand.

“Hello mister Dain.  I’m Luciana.  Very nice to meet you.” Again the firm handshake holding his hand for just a beat too long.  She inclined her head slightly to the side “May I call you Connor?”

He smiled and nodded.  “Very nice to meet you Luciana.  Please call me Connor.”

She nodded. “Would you like a drink?” Her voice was soft yet direct. He smiled and nodded.

“A drink would be great, thank you.” She nodded and spoke.

“This way please.” She waved her hand to the left room and turned to lead the way.  Connor followed.  As she passed the couch she spoke without turning around.

“Please make yourself comfortable.” He sat and looked out the window into the garden.

“MacAllen 25 on the rocks.  Is that right?” She said taking a lowball glass from the bar and turning to smile at him.

“Perfect.” Connor said, returning her smile.  She nodded and turned to make the drink.  She then turned walked over and leaned forward, offering him the drink.  As he took the glass from her hand, his gaze fixated on her cleavage.  The dress was just loose enough for the fabric to fall away from her body as she leaned forward.  She was naked underneath and her skin was dark everywhere he could see. She smiled and leaned back.  “Monica will be here shortly. It was very nice to meet you Connor.” She smiled, nodded and turned to the door next to the bar.

“Um…” Connor struggled to phrase the question, afraid to lose this perfect vision of woman.

Luciana turned back to him and leaned forward, putting her hand lightly on his shoulder.  Her squeeze was gentle but firm, encouraging. Her voice low and rich with promise. “I’ll see you later.” He looked at her face and noticed that she had a tiny piercing, what looked like a diamond in the lower right corner of her smile. She leaned back, turned and left the room.

He sat back, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply.  He took a drink and the shock of the strong smoky liquid seemed to center him.  He opened his eyes and his gaze wandered the room.  He noticed the low music, instrumental jazz for the first time and wondered if it has been playing the whole time.  The air was cool and still.

As he took another drink the door next to the bar opened.  Another woman walked into the room. He started to stand but the woman’s smile and raised hand stopped him.

“Please don’t get up. Hello, I’m Monica. Nice to meet you mister Dain.” Again the offered hand.

She sat beside him as she shook her hand.  Monica was tall, taller than Alicia and very slender.  She wore the same dress, also red, cut to hug her subtle curves perfectly.  Her skin was fair, almost pale.  Golden curls cascaded down to cover her shoulders. Her eyes were pale brown, almost tan. She sat back and nestled herself slightly into the couch, raised her chin a little and spoke. “I love this couch.  I have one just like it at home.  Oh, by the way, may I call you Connor?” She giggled and raised her hand to her face as if embarrassed by the question.  Connor’s face clouded with confusion and she sat up, moving her hand to lightly touch his lips.

“I’m sorry.  It’s just the …” She looked away her brow furrowing with frustration, as if searching and not finding the right words.  Then she smiled and her face brightenedent. She moved her hand to lightly grasp his shoulder. “It seems a bit silly.  To me at least.” She waved her right hand around. “All this formality.  Connor smiled and nodded. “You read my mind.  That’s exactly what I was thinking.  I mean, don’t get me wrong.  It’s very nice here. But… at least..” his words fell away as he had the terrifying thought that the whole thing, the whole adventure was something else, something other than the sensual awakening and exploration that he was hoping for.

The beautiful woman smiled softly, looked into his eyes, and cocked her head slightly to one side.  The smile faded as her gaze dropped to his lips.  She leaned forward, closed her eyes, and kissed him, her hand reaching behind his head, pulling him close.  Her lips were warm, open, and wet, sliding over his.  The warm firmness of her tongue darted into his mouth, then upward, then sliding back, raking against the top of his palate and teeth.

They were both a little breathless when she pulled away, smiled, and demurely looked down.  She looked up and smiled, her voice soft, almost a whisper.  “Let me freshen your drink.” She took the glass from his hand, rose and crossed to the bar.  Connor smelled the same warm soft rose fragrance wash over him.  It seemed to scream sex and pleasure. He watched her fix the drink and turn to him.  She smiled shyly, stepped closer, and leaned down, handing him the drink. His eyes seemed fixed on hers.  She crossed in front of him and sat down, smiling.

“Thank you. “ he said, nodding.  He seemed incapable of looking away from her eyes and she met his gaze warmly.  She glanced down at the coffee table and leaned forward, reaching for a small ornate gold box on the coffee table. She opened the box and took a small red pill, one of many filling the box.  She closed the box and leaned back, raising the pill to his mouth.

Connor leaned back but she smiled, nodded, and touched his face.  “It’s ok.” Her voice was soft and assuring.  He let her put the pill in his mouth.  She then touched the hand holding the drink.  He took a sip and swallowed the pill.  She leaned back, her head resting against the couch.  She started to talk, asking questions about his trip. Connor answered and they fell into an easy conversation. Her laugher seemed like music and he felt himself smiling and laughing along.

The room seemed to become a little brighter and somehow clearer, more vividly focussed.  He looked around and everything, every object and surface seemed lazer sharp.  The various colors seemed filled with infinite shades and textures.  The air seemed to be filled with an infinite number of  different distinct smells, all blended and somehow discrete at the same time. Every note of the soft jazz seemed to leap out, presenting itself for careful examination.  He could feel the tiny indentations of the engraved glass in his hand.

The soft, warm touch of Monica’s hand on the side of his face jerked him back into awareness of her. He turned and she leaned towards him, not smiling, her gaze moving across his face and settling on his lips.  With her other hand she gently touched his drink and pushed down.  He lowered the drink to the table. There was a hunger and heat to her whisper. “I think we’re ready.” Her hand slipped to the back of his head as she leaned in and pressed her lips to his.

His eyes closed and all reality was filled with the hot, wet, simultaneously rough and smooth texture of her lips as they covered his and explored them completely.  Her tongue, rough and insistent roamed the inside of his mouth.  He met it with his own and they began their own maddening sensual dance. Smell, texture, heat, and taste seemed to come together as one explosion of pleasure after another, infinite and ongoing.

After an eternity of hot pleasure, she pulled away, breathing hard, placed both hands on his chest and pushed him roughly back against the couch.  Straddling him on the couch she leaned in, took his head in both hands, leaned forward, and pulled his lips to hers. The pressure of her weight and the rhythmical grinding of her hips seemed to light in him a fire of need.  He felt himself instantly and impossible erect. She pulled her lips away, breathless, and moaned in time to her determined grinding.  She again pulled his lips to her for one brief volcano hot kiss then leaned away for one low whisper before again leaning back into his lips.  “Touch me” she demanded.

His hands started at the back of her hips and slowly slid up the soft material of her dress, up to her shoulders.  Then they moved down her front. She pulled away and gasped as they moved over her hard nipples.  Her hands covered his and she pulled his hands close and squeezed.  His hands squeezed her firm breasts and she gasped again, almost swooning.   She rocked back and forth, grinding into him and pressing his hands across her breasts in time with her grinding.  Her eyes were closed and her voice a rhythmic ragged gasp. Connor could feel the rough heat and desperation of her rising arousal. The soft, musky fragrance of her sex seemed to mix with the rich rose fragrance, creating a heady scent that seemed to stoke the growing fire of desire within him. Her expression was almost pained as she suddenly stopped and pushed herself off of him.

She dropped, kneeling on the floor in front of the couch and began to fumble with the top of his pants.  He reached to help but she slapped his hands away, her face clouded as she gave an inarticulate cry.  She finally undid the snap, unzipped the fly, and reached her hands to the top of his hips.  Her hands firmly grabbed the top of his pants and boxers and roughly pulled them down to his ankles. She leaned forward, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.  Then she opened her eyes, looked up into his, and gently took his penis in her hand.

Connor groaned, closed his eyes, and lay back. The soft, warm texture of her hand as it lightly touched, stroked, then gripped, and squeezed the head of his penis filled him with hot intense sensation.  Monica continued her firm squeezing as she leaned her head down, extended her tongue, and began to softly lick his testicles.  He turned his head from side to side, riding the rising wave of pleasure.  She slowly moved her tongue up, rising to lick the base, the shaft, and finally the front of his penis, just under the head.  Then she stocked her hand down and slid her open mouth slowly over the top of his penis.  Conner jolted upright and let out a cry, shocked by the flood of pleasure from the warm wet texture of her mouth.  He then lay back and softly put his hands on the back of her head, intertwining his fingers in her soft curls. She steadied his penis with her hand as she slowly took him deeper into her mouth. He moaned as the pleasure expanded and grew. His penis was rock hard and throbbing as she slowly moved it in and out, taking it just a little deeper with every stroke.  He jolted with jarring sensation again as she took him deep into the back of her mouth, tightened her lips and sucked hard, creating a maddening pulse at the top of his penis.  She released her suction and slowly moved her mouth up, over the top, and then back on.  Her back arched up, she straightened her throat and gently moved her mouth down on to the root of his shaft, taking his head just inside the tight, hot wetness of her throat.

Connor swooned at the edge of consciousness, the rising, explosive pleasure moving through him like a lava flow. She slowly moved her mouth up, opened her lips to breathe, then moved down again, pressing her lips into him and taking him even deeper into her throat. Again and again she repeated the delicious movement.  He felt the incredible pleasure build and build, closer and closer, till he was on the very edge of an explosive climax.  Monica sensed his tension and very quickly pulled away, gripped the head of his penis firmly, and squeezed.  He felt the climax fade away and realized he was panting, grasping for breath, covered in sweat in the almost cold room.

Panting, he looked into her eyes and she smiled.  Then she lowered her head and began the same incredible slow and intense pleasuring.  He leaned back and felt the heat and desire within him rising.

Again and again Monica urged his pleasure on, bringing him higher and higher, closer and closer, but not yet allowing the nuclear release.

At last the rhythm of her strokes slowed.  He felt the pleasure building more and more.  His hips involuntarily flexed in time with her strokes.  Almost, almost, and then yes!  Yes! Yes! White hot magma pleasure flooded through him as he exploded with the release.  He felt the muscles in his groin spasm with delicious pleasure again and again.  Monica sucked and swallowed again and again until the last spasm.  One last firm suck and swallow.

He fell back against the couch, covered in sweat, and gasping for air.  His fluttered open and he looked down to see Monica’s smiling face rising and she once again climbed onto the couch and straddled him.  Her smile faded, her gaze dropped to his lips, and leaned her head to the side.  Her hands slid behind his head and pulled his lips against hers.  Her tongue urgently moved into his mouth, met his, and they began their familiar fevered dance of need. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in, crushing her into his chest.  She broke their kiss to gasp a groan of pleasure and need.  She again began to grind herself into him. Amazed, he realized he was still rock hard and ready. She moved her head til they were nose to nose, eye to eye.

“The little red pills are pretty cool, huh?” She whispered.  “We can go as long as we want to.” Her eyes seemed to glow and her smile beamed wide. “And that’s going to be a long, long time.” She rose up slightly from him and reached down. The touch of her hand on his penis electrified him and he felt desire and need rage through his body.  She guided the head of his penis and he gasped as he felt the soft wet heat of her vagina.  She slowly lowered herself onto him, closed her eyes, leaned back slightly, and groaned as he moved deeper and deeper into her. He felt a delicious heat, pressure, and resistance as she moved up and down.  His pleasure began to build again with rising heat and need.  His hips began to flex timed with her movements.  She leaned in, her lips at his ear.  She gasped a whisper filled with need. “Grab my hips. Pull me into you.” Her head shook briefly. “Pull me close.  Hard. Pull into me.” Her breath was hot on his ear.  He placed his hands on her hips.  As she moved down onto him he flexed his hips up and pulled himself deeply into her.   “Oh God Yes!”  she whispered, her voice a gasp of intense pleasure. He felt the internal contractions of her vagina and they filled him with a pulsing, throbbing wave of growing pleasure and need.

Up and down she moved. He flexed and pulled himself into her, deeper and deeper, and their rising pleasure, a singular entity, grew larger, hotter, and more insentient. Her gasps of “Yes! Yes!” gave way to pants, faster and faster, and he felt the explosion, the coming climax nearing.

Again, she took him just to the edge and then stopped moving.  She put her hands on either side of his face, stared deeply into his eyes, and whispered. “Look at my eyes. Only my eyes.” he willingly complied. A small smile grew on her lips. “Good.  Now breathe deeply.  Like this.” She took in a slow, deep breath through her nose, mouth closed, and then slowly exhaled through her mouth.  She nodded and he mimicked her actions.  He felt the building climax subsiding, moving away.

Their breathing was almost back to normal when he saw her close her eyes, bow her head forward slightly, and concentrate.  She gently but firmly rocked her hips against him, pushing him inside. Her brow tensed slightly then relaxed.  Again.  He felt something remarkable. Pressure, a soft squeezing, almost gripping of his penis.  Her brow furrowed deeply, her concentration intensified and he realized she was willing her vagina wall to contract around him.  It caused a wonderfully hot tightness, a molten firm throbbing, and he felt his pleasure begin to slowly climb.  As her contraction became more intense she began to whisper, eyes closed. “Yes…Oh that’s good.  That’s so good!”

One final, tight hot squeeze and she opened her eyes, smiled and began to move up and down again.  She took his hands and pressed them into her hips.  They moved back into the delicious familiar rhythm again, slower this time, building more and more.  He felt their shared pleasure, a growing, raging beast of heat, and inevitable need, rising gradually through their slow steady movements.

Her voice became a low, whispered gasp of need. “Yes! Yes! Oh god!  Yes!”.  She thrust her hips against him and he answered by roughly pulling her hips down and thrusting himself deeper into her hot soft tightness.  Faster, deeper, their rough, desperate dance moved closer and closer to something new, something hotter and dangerously explosive.  He swooned again, his conscious thoughts swept away by a fierce, unstoppable need to get closer, deeper inside her, to meld the liquid hot, tight, secret place of hers to his magma, diamond, throbbing shaft.  To use the sun hot heat of their lust to momentarily weld their souls of pleasure together in one dazzling hot bright nova of need and desire.

Closer, closer, almost, almost.  Then the peak, the shuddering, gasping, explosion.  She cried out, her staccato screams announcing her mounting peaks.  He matched her cries as his body shook with the fierce rhythmic contractions of his groin, met and matched by the throbbing contractions inside her.  The wave of intense pleasure seemed to peak for minutes, hours, days.  Slowly it subsided and she fell into his arms, gasping for air, her silk dress drenched with sweat.

He held her closely and allowed himself to slide down on the couch.  She snuggled into him a moment and then rose, allowing him to stretch out on the couch.  She lay beside him and wormed her arms around him, pulling him close.  He embraced her, holding her as if to contain the fleeing heat.

They lay like that for awhile, exhausted, and spent, their sweat mixing and drying in the cool air.  Dozing, nearly asleep, they lounged in the wonderful glow of post coital languor.  Conner floated between consciousness and the quiet vagary of a dream, drifting through both realities freely.  Distant thoughts, memories, and visions floated in and out of his perception. He felt a distant and totally foreign feeling, like an old friend, long forgotten but newly re-discovered and welcome: peace.  He embraced and enjoyed this wonderfully old new-found friend.

He was awakened by Monica rising from the couch and padding into the bedroom.  The door closed and then opened again a few moments later.  She had changed out of her dress and now wore a long black robe.  It looked like silk, a bit thicker than her dress.  She carried another in her hands.

“My dress was still drenched.” She giggled. “I’ll bet your shirt is too.  Here..” She dropped the robe to his side as he sat up. She sat beside him, darted her head in for a teasing, giggly kiss, and then leaned back and began to unbutton his shirt. She leaned forward to slide the shirt off his arms and coming near him, pulled him close, sighed, and nipped at his neck. “I could just eat you up!”.  She leaned back, giggling and held his bunched shirt in her hands. “Again!” she giggled.  She tossed the shirt down with his pants and boxers, stood, taking the robe, and opening it for him to wear.  He stood, faced away from her, and slid his arms into the soft sleeves.  She enveloped him with the robe and hugged him close, sliding her hands down his front. She took one hand and led him to the sitting area.

“Hoo!  I could use a little snack!” She guided him to the couch opposite the fireplace, sat him down, and turned to leave.  She glanced back before leaving the room. “Back in a sec.” she said with a mischievous smile and giggle. Connor allowed himself to sink into the soft couch cushions.  He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.  The soft padding of her steps sounded as she crossed to the door on the far side of the garden room.  He heard the door open and close.

After only a few moments he heard the door open.  The same soft padding of steps along with the sharp clunk of heels moved towards him.  He turned to his left to see Monica followed by Luciana, both carrying large silver trays.  Luciana had changed from her red dress to an identical black robe. Monica’s tray was with covered with thin china serving plates filled with fruits, cheeses, crackers, small circles of sliced meats and sausages.  Luciana’s tray had three wine glasses, and three bottles, two of the bottles in metal cooling sleeves.  The women sat the trays down and sat on either side of Connor. Luciana smiled and touched his shoulder as she spoke. “Nice to see you again Connor.  I hope Monica has taken good care of you.” Her smile had a wicked twinkle as she snuck a quick wink at Monica, who giggled a wink back.

“Believe me she has.” Conner said looking between the two smirking women.  Monica darted herself to his lips for a quick kiss, then pulled away to grin at Luciana. “And he’s taken VERY good care of me!” She said with a giggle.  Luciana smiled and shook her head, then turned to look deeply into Connor’s eyes.  He looked deeply into her soft blue eyes, pale and endless.  Her smile faded as her gaze dropped to his lips.  She slowly leaned towards him, her hand sliding to the back of his head, pulling him to her.  Her face moved just to his right, her lips, gently brushing the side of his.  Her eyes closed, her mouth open only slightly, she brushed her lips softly around his, once, twice, three times before meeting them directly.  Her mouth pressed slowly, gently, with an underlying direct force. Her lips opened and began to move over and against his with more pressure and force, determined to experience every possible sensation the sliding friction and texture could offer.  He tongue, impossibly long and hot with rough need, searched the inside of his mouth, like a tentacle inside a hot wet cave. His tongue met hers and they began a rough, sliding, thrusting forward, then retreating lustful dance.

“Now, now Lucy..” Monica’s giggling voice broke their hypnotic kiss. Her hand was on Luciana’s shoulder, playfully pushing her away. “You’ll get your turn.  But the man need some food.” She giggled and looked at Conner like a very naughty imp. “You want him to be strong don’t you?” she said, laughing out loud.

Luciana ran tip of her tongue across her top lip and brushed her bottom lip with her fingertips, looking deeply and hungrily into Connor’s eyes before turning to Monica with a wicked grin.  “I suppose I do.” Her voice breathy and low.  She leaned back slightly, closed her eyes, took  a deep breath, opened her eyes, and smiled.  “Ok.  Let’s see what we have here.” She turned to the wine bottles, indicating one in a cooling sleeve. “We have a 42 Krug Brut, very cold, a 2005 Guiraud Sauvignon Blanc, also very cold, and a 2004 Cap De Mourlin Cabernet Sauvignon, at room temperature. “

 

Charles Abraham emptied the china plates from the dishwasher and set them on the kitchen counter.  He quickly checked each one; front/back and then placed them carefully in the open cupboard.  There was a sharp twinge of electric pain in his right shoulder as he reached to place the large yellow platter on a high shelf.  He carefully situated the platter in its holder, adjusting it so that the fine hand painted surface was displayed properly.  He brought his right arm down and rubbed his shoulder, easing the pain away.  “Hello middle age” he thought.  He closed the doors to the cupboard and stepped back from the counter.  He visually scanned the kitchen, making sure it was in its normal spotless state.  Then he walked to the doorway to the living room and turned out the kitchen light.

He sat back in his favorite wing chair, hearing the squeaks, crackles, and pops of the soft leather as his body settled in.  He laid his head back, closed his eyes, and savored the heavy, rich smell of the Jambalaya and cornbread he had made for dinner.

A worried thought intruded on his reverie. “Andy should’ve been here,” he quickly chased the idea away. He sighed, rose, and crossed to the small liquor cabinet, and looked among the few bottles for the expensive Scotch he occasionally allowed himself. “Not here,” he thought.  Again the worry; “Andrew,” his mind using the full name as if to underline the offense. He shook his head and walked back to his chair.  He sat, laid his head back, closed his eyes, and tried to wash the worry and growing anger away with the warm memory food smells.  He dozed.

He was asleep and dreaming in the chair when familiar sounds stirred him awake.  He heard the lock of the front door turning, the door opening, the heavy, erratic thumps of someone stumbling in, and then the front door carefully and quietly closing.  He opened his eyes to see his son, Andy leaning against the door, his forehead touching the leaded glass.

Charles cleared his throat.  Andy whipped around so fast that he nearly lost his balance.  He righted himself and stood up straight, swaying only slightly. His face broke into a wide smile. “Hey Dad!”

“Hey Andy,” Charles said.  His mind demanded “Ask him about the Scotch!” He cocked his head slightly to the right as if to shoo the worry away. “You eat yet?”

Andy nodded.  “Me and the guys got something.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in through is nose. “Man!  Sure smells good!  You make Jambalaya?”

“And cornbread. Sorry you missed it. Maybe you can have it tomorrow.”

“Sure” he said and then sharply turned around, listening.

“What wrong?” Charles said, some new worry.

Andy shook his head and turned back.  “Nuthin.  Rico had to see his—,“ his addled mind searched for a more appropriate word than “hoe”.  “—girlfriend.”  He’ll be back by.

Charles frowned, realized the room was dark, reached to the lamp next to the chair, and turned it on. “You’re goin’ back out? What time is it?” he said, looking at his watch.  The watch showed 11:30.

“Not that late. ‘Round eleven” Andy’s smile faded away.

Charles looked down, shook his head and rose from his chair.  He walked over to Andy, who took a step back. “You’re going back out with Rico and that other one?” He tried hard to keep the angry accusing tone from his voice.

“Rico and Shaz.  They’re my friends.  Yeah, we’re just  be gonna hang out,” his tone careful yet defensive.

“Andy – I really don’t mean to nag at you.  But we’ve talked about this.  I thought you said—“

“No, YOU SAID—YOU SAID!” Andy spat, pushing off from the door to stand upright, nose to nose with his father, who quickly backed up.  “I NEVER AGREED TO STOP SEEING THEM!” The words shouted with a conviction fueled by anger and alcohol.

“I’m sorry – I’m sorry” Charles said, backing up even more. “I misunderstood.” He took a breath, and then took one careful step forward. “Son, all I’m saying is that I worry about you and those boys.  I hear things in the neighborhood about them.  And they’re not good things. You know what I’m saying?” Charles struggled to keep his voice even and low.  He fought against the always-present frustration, worry, and anger.

Andy did not back away. “You hear anything about me?” He said.  “These neighborhood people tell you anything about me?” His eyes glaring directly into his father’s.

Charles took one step back and looked down. “No – nobody said anything about you.”

“Ok then.  I’ll see you later. I’ll wait outside” his words with sharp and tense.  He opened the front door and want outside.

Charles stood there for a moment looking at the front door.  He took a breath and turned, and walked to his chair.  He dropped himself into the chair, ignoring the leather’s sharp complaints. He closed his eyes, put his head in his hands, and shook it slowly. Tears began to form and run down his face.  “Oh Charise – Charise – where’d I go wrong?” He wept quietly for awhile and suddenly sat up straight, wiping his eyes and taking a deep breath.  He looked to his left at the picture on the wall.  Even in the dim light he could make out every trivial detail of the picture, his memory filling in what his eyes could not actually see.

It was the last family photo they had taken, the last one before his beloved Charise was taken and the kids all went on to their own lives.  All except Andy. He looked at the picture and felt so many things, fierce love and loss for his Charise, such pride and love for Eddie, Clarisse, Janet, Martha, Grace, and Andrew.  “Six kids” he thought, “Six kids raised up good and solid.   “Except for Andrew –Except for Andrew,” he looked back to the front door.

Outside, Andy sat on the porch and ran the conversation around in his head. “You know he’s just looking out for you!” the internal voice said. He listened and realized it was her voice, his mother’s voice. A burning wave of emotional pain, the loss of losing her flooded over him.  He shook his head to clear it.  Another voice, this one his own but louder, meaner spoke in his head. “He had no right. You’re not a boy.  You’re a man.  Twenty years old. Twenty years old and your own man.  He’s got to understand that!” He nodded in agreement but the other voice persisted.  The internal voices railed at each other.

In frustration he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a silver flask, a gift for passing one of Rico’s tests tonight. He smiled when he saw his initials “AFD” engraved in script on the silver surface, the light from the porch outlining the letters in shadow. He smiled, opened the flask, and took several burning gulps.  He brought it away and coughed a few times as the harsh, woody whiskey burned its way down.  He leaned back against the fence and closed his eyes. The air was dry, unmoving, and hot against the skin of his face.  A small bead of sweat formed on his forehead and rolled down the side of his face. He smiled as the vague heat of the whiskey seemed to drown out the pleading internal voice of his mother, leaving only his own proud angry self. He took another long pull on the flask and returned it to his jacket.  Then he reached into his other pocket and pulled out the other gift Rico had given him.  He smiled, feeling the cool metal, the lethal hard weight of the handgun in his hand. He could feel the compressed unflinching power of the gun and it made him feel good, powerful, – important.

He jumped up and nearly fell, steadying himself against the fence. He strutted into the dark street.  All the houses were dark, asleep.  He looked one way then the next.  The streetlamp nearest his house was out and the light from the other one cast long shadows.  He stood in the middle of the street and turned to look at his shadow, a dark giant in the dim light. He raised the gun to wonder at its dark menacing shadow.

He heard a noise behind him, engineless rubber on the road.  He turned to see a dark, low shape gliding towards him, a hunched figure on two wheels.  Someone on a bicycle, someone really pumping. It was closing on him fast and showed no sign of slowing or swerving.  He yelled “Hey!” and jumped aside.  The rider’s head sprang up and the bike swerved away from him.  Andy watched it glide away.  The rider, now dark from Andy’s shadow, turned and yelled “Watch where you’re standing asshole!” Then turned and speed on, nearing the dark end of the street.

Andy was enraged, and without a thought brought the gun up and fired three times at the speeding shape.

Charles was again awakened by noise.  “Gunshots,” he thought “Three of them.”  Now fully awake and alert, he wondered if they had been real.  He listened carefully. A few seconds passed and then there were two more shots, but different.  The first three had been close, right outside his front door.  These two had come from down the street.

He jumped from the chair, crossed to the front door, fumbled it open, and looked into the street.  He squinted and scanned the scene but saw nothing, no, there was something; a still shadow lying in the street.  He rushed to it but was stopped by another shape; a man approaching from the dark end of the street, a man with a gun.

Forty-Five Minutes Earlier

“One hundred” said Dan Barron as he finished the sit ups.  Controlling his breathing to a regular, easy pace, he allowed himself to rest for exactly thirty seconds.  Then he jumped up and went through a comprehensive and painful routine of stretching exercises.  When he had finished his heart rate was its normal 30 beats per minute. He breathed deeply and evenly, in through his nose and out through his mouth for one minute, then relaxed.  He looked at the clock: eleven on the dot.  “Too late to ride,” he thought.

Then he felt the tightness, the tension in his neck. He rolled his head around but knew the best thing, the only thing that would wash away the tension was a nice long bike ride.  He nodded and went to the bedroom to change.

He pulled off his Sunday workout clothes and dropped them in the hamper.  He opened the closet to retrieve his Sunday riding attire.  He placed the garments on the bed and began to dress.  He paused as he saw the pale puckered skin of the bullet scar in his right shoulder.  “Ancient,” he thought “twenty years ago.” He raised his right arm and winced and the sudden pain. “Fucking middle age,” he thought and continued to dress.

Before leaving the bedroom, he looked around.  Four bare walls except for one picture, an 8 by 10 centered in the wall opposite his bed; a small boy, smiling. “Danny, ” he thought, and smiled “Danny, ten years old,” his smile faded as a shadowy panorama of painful memories crawled through his head. “Before the bad time – the dark time. Before you went away.” His face was blank as he left the room.

The streets were empty and he pushed himself till his leg muscles complained with a wash of throbbing, burning pain. Despite that, his mind gradually escaped to the peaceful, empty world of hard exercise.  He made the next to last turn, onto the street with the broken streetlamp at the end. Assuming another empty street, he kept his head down and thrust his screaming legs on.

He heard a noise, human, male, in front of him. It caused him to pop his head up and become fully alert. Someone in the middle of the road!  He swerved away from the stumbling form and fought to keep the bike upright.  His body flooded with adrenaline and pain, his mind angry and racing.  He turned back and shouted at the form outlined in the street.  Then he turned back around.

Three pops, unmistakable gunshots, and simultaneously the high-pitched, all-too-familiar “zip” of bullets caroming off asphalt.  He quickly laid the bike down, slid to a stop, pulled out his weapon, and sighted the figure in.  Two controlled squeezes, two loud reports, and the figure shook twice and collapsed, a broken scarecrow.

Dan worked to control his breathing and slow his racing heart.  He felt a leaden coldness creeping into his limbs. He rose and walked towards the fallen shape.

As he neared, the front door of the house beside the figure burst open and an older man rushed out.  Dan raised the gun to cover the man, but quickly evaluated the threat to be negligent and lowered the weapon.  The old man looked at him blankly and then down to the fallen figure.  He dropped to his knees and gently cradled the still figure in his arms.  “Andrew – Andrew” he said softly.

Dan looked at the scene before him for a moment. Then he holstered his weapon, pulled his phone from his pocket, and dialed 911.  He answered the questions slowly and carefully, glancing at the house for the street number.  He ended the call and returned the phone to his pocket.  He carefully knelt beside the old, weeping man.

“Is this your son sir?” Dan asked softly.  As the word “son” left his lips, he felt the same, intense, pain\guilt\horror slash though him.  He pushed it away. The old man looked up to him blankly and nodded.

Dan felt the simple nod as if it were a wrecking ball smashing its way through his chest. He struggled with the words he had to say. They came out choppy, uneven, and interrupted by his sobs. “Sir, I’m very sorry to say that I think I killed your son.”

The night swallowed the three figures up and the only sounds were the soft cries of the two men sobbing, broken minutes later by the wailing of the approaching vehicles.

 

 

 

(A short skit I wrote for a friend. Please excuse the formatting issues. )

CHARACTERS:

Randa – An intelligent, perceptive, and literate woman.

Fred – An extremely intelligent, apparently humanoid alien with little to no knowledge or experience with human culture.

Admiral Davis – (voice) Randa’s immediate supervisor.

The Crags – (No scripted dialogue) Two or three alien ambassadors.

SETTING:         A rectangular table with three chairs on either side.

AT RISE:          Randa is seated, looking over some papers and making notes.

SFX:                 A buzz, ring, or tone to indicate an incoming message.  This may be from an apparent communication device worn by Randa or from a box on the table.

RANDA: (Activating the communication device) Randa here.

DAVIS: (voice) Davis here. Hows the negotiation prep going?

RANDA: Pretty good.  I’ve gone over their requests and don’t see any big issues.  It should go pretty smoothly.

DAVIS: Good good.  You understand why I might be a little concerned. After that debacle with the Phenobobs.

RANDA: Sir I understand your concern.  I can guarantee that nothing like that will happen again.

DAVIS: I hope not!  As you certainly can remember, that one didn’t go too well.

RANDA: I remember sir. I was there.

DAVIS: As I recall, the talks were going really well until you stubbornly refused a simple, reasonable request from the Phenobob ambassador. You also became quite angry and your sudden outburst completely ended any possibility of the negotiations continuing.

RANDA: Begging your pardon sir, but I was there and the request was not simple and certainly not reasonable. Do you recall the exact nature of the request?

DAVIS: Well not exactly, but I’m sure…

RANDA: The ambassador did not request but demanded that I dance on the table.

DAVIS: Well that’s not so bad…

RANDA: Naked.

DAVIS:             It was a very important…

RANDA: With my hair on fire.

DAVIS: Oh…. I don’t think I remembered that.

RANDA: I do sir.  I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.

DAVIS: I guess that was a bit unreasonable.

RANDA: A bit sir.  I have to say, that considering how badly that turned out, I was a little surprised when you asked me to conduct this negotiation.  I really appreciate being given a second chance.

DAVIS: Not a problem, not a problem.  I believe in second chances.  And you have some particular attributes that might….well , never mind about that.

RANDA            : Well in any case sir, I just want to assure you that I will do my very best to achieve a favorable outcome in this particular negotiation.

DAVIS: I’m sure you will.  By the way, about that, I’ve been thinking… I’m going to add another person.  Someone to help you in this endeavor.

RANDA: That sounds fine sir.  Anyone I know?

DAVIS: I don’t think so.  He’s a member of the Polonian embassy staff.  He’s working with us as part of a cultural exchange program.  You know, help us to understand each other’s cultures better. Are you familiar with the Polonian people?

RANDA: I’m not sir.

DAVIS: Good good, anyway he’s extremely intelligent and has been studying human culture for the last few weeks.  I’m sure he’ll be a real asset in this negotiation.  He has years of experience.  Anyway, he should be there shortly.

RANDA: I’m sure he will sir. What’s his name?

DAVIS: That’s a very good question and one I can’t answer.  There seems to be some difficulty in translating their names into our language.  I’m sure he’ll tell you his name when he arrives.

RANDA: Understood sir.

DAVIS: Very well, Good luck Randa!  Davis out.

RANDA: Oh boy….   (Fred enters. He stands for a moment then begins to nod his head repeatedly,  extends his right hand straight out and crosses to Randa.)

FRED: Hello!  I believe you are known as Randa!  Hello! It is very nice to meet you!  Hello!  ( Randa extends her hand.  He takes it and shakes it briskly.)

RANDA: It’s very nice to meet you too.  And your name is…

FRED: Ah yes!  My name…my name.  Well… you see.. my name is… my name is a bit of a pickle.

RANDA: Soooooo, you are a bit of a pickle?

FRED: Oh no!  Oh how humorous!  My name!  A bit of a pickle!  You thought, because of my clumsy and inaccurate phrasing that I was saying that my name was actually a bit of a pickle!  How humorous!  How humorous!  I had no idea humans were so very humorous!  I praise you Randa!  I praise you and your immaculate humor!  Your humor is most immaculate!  Most immaculate indeed! My name!  My name is a bit of a pickle!  How very humorous.  I must relate that to my fellow Polonian’s very soon.  They will also praise your immaculate humor as I have!

RANDA: It is pretty funny….

FRED: FUNNY! YES!  That is the word!  Your somewhat casual and familiar word for humorous.  Funny!  Yes!  That you erroneously thought my name to be a bit of a pickle is very funny!  Very funny indeed!  I am still laughing!  Ho ho ho!  Hear me still laughing!   Ho ho ho!

RANDA            : Right… really funny.  Now, if I may ask, what is your name?

FRED: Ah yes!  An excellent and immaculate question. An immaculate question indeed! You see, when I said that my name was a bit of a  pickle, what I meant to say, what I meant to convey, you see, the meaning that I meant to convey is that the complete and accurate translation of my name to your language is difficult and cumbersome. Do you know anything of Polonian names?

RANDA: I’m sorry to say that I don’t.

FRED: Very well.  You see unlike your culture, where you have a first name, sometimes referred to as a Christian name, a name that is somewhat individual to you, and a surname or last name that indicates your family.  We only have one name; one single name.  But this name, this single name, conveys the entire history or our family, up to and inclusive of the details of our birth.  And as our culture is nearly forty two thousand Earth years old, these names can be quite extensive.  For example, my family’s history dates back thirty five thousand Earth years. Therefore my name conveys thirty five thousand years family history.

RANDA: That sounds incredible!

FRED: Oh no!  It is very credible!  I am not fabricating in any way!  Have I misspoken? Have I done something in my cultural ignorance to indicate that I was fabricating or attempting to deceive you?  If so, please tell me in what way I have failed to convey the credible nature of my meaning. Please!

RANDA: Oh no!  I didn’t mean that I didn’t believe what you were saying.  Generally when we use the word “incredible” we mean something amazing.

FRED: I see. So in common use, the word incredible, which strictly speaking, conveys something that can not under any circumstances be believed, is at least sometimes synonymous with amazing.  Is that correct?

RANDA: Yes.  I think you stated that very well.

FRED: I see.  So am I to infer that many of your words and expressions are not, strictly speaking, completely and comprehensively accurate, that there is some flexibility in their use and meaning?

RANDA            : Yeah, I think that’s a fair thing to say.

FRED: Very well.  Please elaborate on any and all words and expressions in your language that have multiple or flexible meanings and usage.  Please do this now.

RANDA: Ummm, that might take a bit of time…Please continue explaining your name.

FRED: Ah!  Of course!  My name.  Forgive me for becoming sidetracked on the very interesting nature of your language. I will now continue to explain my name.  As I have said, my name, in my language is quite long and elaborate.  However the compressed and efficient nature of our language allows us to convey a great deal of information in very few characters or letters.  For instance, the entire history of our race, our culture, can be expressed completely and comprehensively in a single phrase only twenty two words long.

RANDA: That’s amazing!

FRED: Thank you!  Would you like to hear our great and glorious history in our native language?

RANDA: Yes!  Please do!

FRED: Very well! As you say, Here goes! (He begins to apparently speak in an extremely animated and excited manner, moving about the stage with over the top gestures. Yet he does not actually make any sound, at least any audible sound until the very end.) BUUUUURP! There!  That is the great and glorious story of my people!  I hope you enjoyed it!

RANDA            : Ummm, actually..I didn’t hear anything except that last part at the end.

FRED: You heard nothing else? How odd.  I don’t …. Ahh yes!  I am so very sorry!  I forgot that your range of hearing is much more limited than ours.  I’m afraid that much of our native language is conveyed in a register that is far beyond what you can hear.  I am so very sorry.

RANDA: It’s no problem Let’s get back to your name.

FRED: Of course!  Again I allow my great love an appreciation of your culture and mine to sidetrack my in an inaccurate and clumsily not immaculate way.  Forgive me please!  My name…. as I said, my name encompasses a great deal of information.

RANDA: I understand.

FRED: If I were to translate my name completely and directly into your language..

RANDA: I that even possible?

FRED: Of course!  I have done so! I undertook this effort when I was first stationed here.  I thought it important to convey my name in a manner that would also convey the history of my family.  I am very happy to say that I was able to do so successfully.

RANDA            : Excellent Please share it me!

FRED: Very well…(he takes a deep breath and starts to speak) You do realize that the complete and accurate pronunciation of my name will take some time.

RANDA: How long?

FRED: Ummm, about two hours and twenty seven minutes, depending on how often I have to stop for air.

RANDA: Right, uhhhh

FRED: I’ve found that using my name in it’s entirety tends to slow down conversation quite a bit.

RANDA: I can imagine.  Is there any way you could shorten it?

FRED: I don’t understand.

RANDA: shorten it to just the very first or last part. Could you that?

FRED: Interesting!  I suppose I could.  Let me think. (thinks) If I were to use only the very first part, that would say nothing that was actually about me.  So I think it would be best if I shorten it to the very last part. (thinking) Yes!  I can do it!  I have done it!  I have shortened my name.

RANDA            : Great! (No one speaks for a bit) Sooo…

FRED: Oh!  Of course!  How inaccurate and non-immaculate of me!  You want to HEAR my shortened name!  You want me to SPEAK it!

RANDA            : Yes please!

FRED: My name!  My shortened name… is Fred.

RANDA            : Fred?

FRED: Fred is my name.  My shortened name.

RANDA: Fred!

FRED: That is correct.  My name is Fred. Now that I have established my name, let us begin again so that our relationship based on mutual cultural sharing, exploration, and understanding can begin in a most immaculate and efficient manner.  I will leave and come in again. (He stands and briskly exits.  Fred returns, stands nodding, then raises his right arm, and crosses to Randa, who meets his hand with her own. Fred briskly shakes her hand .) Hello!  I am Fred!  You must be Randa!  Hello!  I am Fred!  Hello! It is very nice to meet you Randa! I am Fred! Hello!

RANDA: Hello Fred!  It’s very nice to meet you too!

RANDA: Hello Fred! Very nice to meet you too! (Fred abruptly drops Randa’s hand and steps to behind the center chair.)

FRED: Now that we are formally and immaculately introduced, shall we begin to prepare for the Adonarian negotiation? (Fred steps behind the chair to his left and pulls it out.) Randa, please allow me. ( He nods to her.  She smiles, nods, and sits.)

RANDA: Thank you very much Fred. (Fred slides her chair in.)

FRED: You are very welcome Randa.  (He crosses behind the center chair, nods to Randa and sits himself.) Now we are ready to begin the preparation. Let me begin by saying I have studied Adonarian culture quite extensively. They have much in common with your culture.  Their race is humanoid, very similar to yours.  Anatomically they are practically identical to humans, in that they have male and female sexes like humans.

RANDA: Not to interrupt, but is it true that the Polonians have only one sex?

FRED: That is correct.  We do not have two similar sexes with differing yet complementary sex organs. Actually we have no external sex organs of any kind.

RANDA: Well…I don’t want to be rude, but how do you reproduce?

FRED: I take no offense at all Randa.  I appreciate the opportunity to share our culture.  As I said, we have no external sex organs.  Our reproductive organs are all internal. Each of us has the ability to produce a thick gelatinous substance that contains the necessary elements to fertilize and stimulate the birth modules, what you might call eggs, in another Polonian.

RANDA: Facinating!  And you have the ability to produce this substance at will?

FRED: No.  It’s production is stimulated by our partner who performs a ritualistic dance.  It’s quite a beautiful process, on which, much of our art is based.

RANDA: Can you describe the dance?

FRED: Certainly.  The dancing partner disrobes in a brilliantly seductive and compelling manner while ascending onto an altar or table. They then use ritualistic small torches to light their hair on fire.  I must say just thinking about the dance is very stimulating.

RANDA            : Really? Fred, does your race have any similarities with the Phenobob race?

FRED: Why yes!  How perceptive of you!  The Phenobob race is actually comprised of a group of Polonians who colonized another star system many thousands of years ago. How did you know that?

RANDA            : Just a lucky guess.

FRED: If you are interested in the reproductive process I’d be happy to demonstrate. (he stands) Please remove your clothing and ascend the table. (He pushes papers aside.) I think we’ll forgo the setting your hair on fire.  I don’t think human scalps are quite and fireproof as Polonians.

RANDA            : I really don’t think so…

FRED: You don’t wish to participate?  Very well, I think I can quite effectively imagine what you would look like naked and dancing on the table.  (He closes his eyes and concentrates.)

RANDA            : Really, I’d rather not…

FRED: Oh Yes!  (he begins to retch.) HURRRRK! That’s working very nicely!  HUUUUURK!  HURRRRK! (He leans over the table)

RANDA            : (Standing) PLEASE STOP!  I’M BEGGING YOU TO STOP!

FRED: HUUURRRK! I’M SORRY RANDA, ONCE THE PROCESS HAS BEEN STARTED THERE’S ABSOLUTELY NO WAY TO STOP IT!  HUUUUUURK!  HUUUUURRRK!

RANDA            : OK, I DON’T MEAN TO BE RUDE. BUT IF I SEE ONE DROP OF THAT CRAP COME OUT OF YOUR MOUTH, I’M GOING TO RIP OFF YOUR ARM AND SHOVE IT DOWN YOUR THROAT!

FRED: (Abruptly stops) Amazing!  You instinctively understood that the only way to stop the process was to effectively threaten my life.  You are an amazing person Randa!

RANDA            : Well thank you.  I do what I can.  And I really didn’t mean to..

FRED: Please don’t worry!  I found it both stimulating, terrifying, and exciting!  Was it good for you!

RANDA            : Yeah, let’s get back to the negotiation. (They sit.)

FRED: Randa, I am correct in assuming that you are a female human?

RANDA            : That’s right.

FRED: Ahh yes!  I assumed that because of your breasts. I am correct in assuming that the semi-globular appendages on your chest are breasts?

RANDA            : I’ve heard them referred to in that particular manner but yes, they are.

FRED:   And they are used to sexually stimulate both yourself and your sex partner as well as producing sustenance for your offspring?

RANDA            : Correct.

FRED: I see.  If I may say, your breasts appear to be excellent!  I’ve seen many pictures and video of human female breasts and yours appear to have all the characteristics generally recognized as desirable.

RANDA            : Well thank you very much.

FRED: Would it be acceptable if I were to…(He reaches both hands as if to squeeze Randa’s breasts.  She diverts his hands away.)

RANDA            : No offense but I don’t think so.

FRED: Completely understood.  As a human female, you also have a vagina, is that correct?

RANDA            : That’s correct.

FRED: Would it be acceptable if I were to..(he leans forward with his hands under the table.  She raises her hand from under the table, holding his hand and placing it on the table.)

RANDA            : Again, no offense but no.

FRED: Again I understand.  And please let me apologize for offending you in any way.  I am merely trying to understand…

RANDA: It’s quite all right. You’re trying to learn our culture.  I completely understand.

FRED: I greatly appreciate your understanding.  Is there anything I can tell you about our culture?

RANDA            : Actually yes, you said that when you initiate reproduction, one partner produces the gelatinous fertilization material.  Does the other partner then ingest the material?

FRED: That’s correct.  We produce the material, as you call it, into a ceremonial bowl, some are thousands of years old, and the other partner ingests it.  The entire process is a very beautiful and moving ceremony.

RANDA: Fascinating!  So the other partner drinks the material?

FRED: Not so much drinks as absorbs.  Another difference between our two races is the tongue.  As I understand it the human tongue is fundamentally a wide flat muscle about 4 to six inches long.  Is that correct?

RANDA: That sounds about right.

FRED: The Polonian tongue is similar yet quite different. In the ingestion process, the tongue expands to a length of up to seventeen inches.  It does this in order to absorb or ingest every trace of the fertilization material.

RANDA            : Let me get this straight.  You have a seventeen inch tongue?

FRED: Well there are of course, differences.  Some are smaller and some are larger.  Mine is actually twenty two inches when fully expanded. In that state, it’s most effective in absorbing the fertilization material.

RANDA            : I see.

FRED: Of course it’s not just the length that helps to absorb the material.  It’s also capable of a very intense movement or vibration.  This helps to break down the material for better ingestion.

RANDA            : Just to be clear…. You have a twenty two inch vibrating tongue.  Is that right? Do I have that right?

FRED: Yes, but if we are to be completely and immaculately accurate, it would be best described as a twenty two inch, vibrating, prehensile tongue. I think that would be the best way to describe.

RANDA            : Right…right.  I understand. (She closes her eyes and smiles.  Both are silent for a few beats.)

FRED: Randa, have I said or done something wrong?  If so I am very sorry, I would be glad to…

RANDA            : (Eyes opening) No!  Of course not! I just want to (eyes closing again and the smile) think about your…. Your reproductive process for a bit.  Just a bit…

FRED: Oh!  Well I must say I greatly appreciate your interest in our culture.

RANDA            : (sighing) Sure.  (eyes opening) sure.  It’s just such a fascinating subject!  (She leans toward him and takes one of his hands.) Listen, about earlier. When you were asking about my breasts and vagina.

FRED: I do hope I didn’t offend you too greatly.  It’s just that I am so interested..

RANDA: Of course you are!  Of course you are!  That’s perfectly natural and understandable!  It was silly of me to behave in such a puritanical manner!  You’re interested in us!  We’re interested in you!  I’m actually VERY interested in you!

FRED: I’m so glad to hear you say that!  I believe our two races have much to learn from each other!

RANDA            : Yeah!  Much to learn.  Right.  So… I was thinking that I was really out of line in my reaction to your interest in my… ummm.. attributes.

FRED: You mean when I requested the opportunity to examine your breasts and vagina?

RANDA            : Exactly!  I think I overreacted just a little.

FRED: You have reconsidered?  I may examine them now! Excellent! (he moves his hands towards her breasts.  She stops his hands but clasps them in hers.)

RANDA            : Right now is probably not quite the right time.  How about we postpone our mutual interest in each other’s….attributes until after the negotiation is completed.  Say we have dinner and then back to my place. I think that’s the best time and place for a long and thorough exchange of information.  Don’t you?

FRED: I do!  I do!  I am actually quivering in anticipation! (she let’s go of his hands)

RANDA            : Yeah, quivering.  (she takes a deep breath) Ok… ok Randa. Focus…focus.

FRED: You are of course correct.  We must now focus on the negotiation.

RANDA            : Right, the negotiation.  They should be getting here shortly.

FRED: Correct. There is one thing about which I wished to speak with you.

RANDA: What’s that?

FRED: I assume you’ve researched the specific territorial demands that the Adonarian people are making?

RANDA            : I have.  We have some interest in those sectors but I expect we can easily come to terms of use even if we allow the Adonarian’s sovereignty.

FRED: I agree.  For the most part, the negotiation should proceed smoothly. But the Adonarian people are regarded as the most difficult and demanding negotiators in the known universe.  Were you aware of that?

RANDA            : I am aware of that.

FRED: I’ve researched hundreds of past negotiations with them and discovered one method that seems to, in every instance, expedite and smooth relations to a favorable outcome in every case.

RANDA            : And what method is that?

FRED: It is a method called sweetening the deal.

RANDA            : Ok, I’m at least generally familiar with that concept.

FRED: Excellent!  In this case, there is one thing in particular that, if used to sweeten the deal, would almost guarantee that we can complete this negotiation to a more than favorable result for the humans in nearly record time.

RANDA            : And what would that one thing be?

FRED: I’m glad you asked. It’s your vagina.

RANDA            : (a beat) I don’t think I heard you right.  I could have sworn you said my vagina.

FRED: Oh no!  I did not say my vagina.  As you know, I don’t actually have a vagina.  If I did, it would make it much simpler.  I said…

RANDA            : So you did say your vagina, which means my vagina.  Is that correct?

FRED: That is correct!  You do understand!  Excellent!  That will make this entire process so much easier.  So I may assume that you agree to…

RANDA            : Wait a minute cowboy.  Let’s slow down a bit.  I don’t really understand, and in all honesty I don’t think I WANT to understand, how my vagina is the pivotal element in this negotiation.  Against my better judgment, please explain that to me.

FRED: Very well.  As I said earlier, the Adonarian race is very similar to the human race.  They like you, have male and female genders.

RANDA            : I understand that.

FRED: Adonarian anatomy is almost identical to human anatomy.  For this reason, Adonarian males have, in the past, had sexual relations with human females.

RANDA            : That’s fascinating! I was not aware of that at all.

FRED: That’s not surprising.  These encounters have, almost always, occurred on the outer edges of human space. You see the Adonarian males, generally speaking; place an extremely high premium on human females as sexual partners.

RANDA            : I see.

FRED: Yes, what you may not know is that the Adonarian team sent to participate in this negotiation is entirely comprised of Andonarian males. And they value one thing, one human thing, more highly than any star system, sector, mineral, or strategic area, and that thing is…

RANDA            : My vagina.

FRED: Well, strictly speaking, not your vagina in particular, but human vagina’s in general.  And since you and your vagina are here, and Admiral Davis suggested that you would be amenable to allowing the Adonarian embassy members free use and access to your vagina…

RANDA            : He said what?

FRED: Oh!  Oh!  I forgot, admiral Davis asked me not to mention that particular aspect to you.  I am sorry.  I will also have to apologize to the admiral.

RANDA            : That son of a bitch!

FRED: I am sorry if this presents a problem for you.  But as you can see, your vagina is almost certainly a very important, if not critical part of this negotiation.

RANDA            : Ok…Ok.  I understand.  But let me make one thing perfectly clear.

FRED: Very well.  I am listening.

RANDA            : I understand how valuable my vagina may be to this negotiation.

FRED: That is good.

RANDA            : But under no circumstances is my vagina to have any part of this negotiation, unless of course I have to go to the bathroom.

FRED: What?  I don’t understand.

RANDA            : Skip it.  What I’m saying, is that we may have to use every resource available to us to secure a positive outcome of this proceeding.  I understand that.  But one thing is nonnegotiable. And that one thing is my vagina.

FRED: I see. So just to be clear, your vagina is nonnegotiable?

RANDA            : That is correct.

FRED: I understand.

RANDA            : Good, so. We can..

FRED: I must say though that as your vagina has value, particularly to the Andonarian delegation, it should be on the table. I’m just saying that your vagina should be on the table.

RANDA            : I understand that, but let me make one thing perfectly clear, my vagina is not on the table. Is that clear.

FRED: Regrettably yes.  I understand.

RANDA: Right, so let’s proceed to…

SFX:                 A buzz, ring, or tone to indicate an incoming message.  This may be from an apparent communication device worn by Randa or from a box on the table.

RANDA            : Randa here.

DAVIS: (voice)Randa, the Adonarian delegation is here.  Should I send them in or…

RANDA            : (looks to Fred) Are you ready?

FRED: I am ready.

RANDA            : We’re ready admiral.  Please send them in. Randa out. (looks to Fred) Ok, do you want me to start or..

FRED: I’ve prepared an opening statement.  If you will allow I will….

RANDA            : That’s fine with me… (the Adonarian delegation enters, Randa and Fred rise)

FRED: On behalf of the human and Polonial alliance, let me extend our great thanks, admiration, and appreciation on your honoring us with your presence and consideration. Please believe and understand that we place the highest priority on entering into a mutually beneficial agreement for both of our great endeavors.  Gentlemen, simply put, thank you for your presence and participation in this first, great, effort in the greatest possible cultural exchange between our two great peoples. Thank you !  Thank you! (favorable  mumblings from the Adonarians) Gentlemen, please sit and enjoy our hospitality. (the Adonarian’s sit. Fred indicates to Randa that she should sit. She does.) Before we formally being these proceedings I must beg your indulgence in one small matter.  In the negotiations in which we are about to undertake, I must make crystal clear one important point: that point being: Ambassador Randa’s vagina will NOT be on the table.  I do hope you understand and appreciate that.

 

END

 

David Kuval, my boss, stood slowly, and leaned forward towards me putting his hands on his desk. “The question you have to ask yourself Payne, is do you really want to be the homicide department head.” He said the words with a serious, concerned tone that made me want to laugh.  I’m not sure why.  Truth is just about everything most people say makes me want to laugh.  Go figure.

He was serious and concerned today because I had apparently screwed up his plans to ascend the Richardson Police Department food chain to the exalted throne of Police Commissioner by not “cooperating in a full and open manner” with the vice department, commonly referred to as “the asshole department.”

“This is about me stonewalling the asshole department, isn’t it?”

He looked down at his desk, took in a deep, slow breath and exhaled as he sat back down.  His eyes looked tired as he raised his gaze from the desk. “Yes Nick, it is. And I have to say I’m very happy to hear you admit to it. Can you explain to me just why you did it?”

Cue heavy sigh from me. “Sure… here’s what happened. Last Monday morning, right after shift change, I’m at my desk, trying to achieve consciousness when Mike’s phone rings.” Mike’s my partner. His desk sits face-to-face with mine. “So Mike picks it up and has one of his Mike conversations, he’s like ‘yeah…yeah…yeah…right’ and hangs up.  Then he looks at me and starts to chuckle.” Kuval frowns as I continue to talk. “So he’s just sitting there, looking at me and chuckling and not saying shit.  So I ask him ‘What’s funny?’ and he says ‘That was Peterson’ and I say ‘Peterson from the asshole department’ and he nods and says ‘he says you need to drop what you’re doing and bring him everything you have on the Williamson case..’ Now picture this, Mike’s chuckling, like he just heard a joke that’s a little funny but not so funny that you actually bust out laughing, but then he starts to really get into it, he starts laughing so hard I swear he was tearing up a little.  And then he says ‘Peterson says he needs it… On The Double’ and Mike just fucking loses it. He’s laughing like I’ve never seen him laugh.  I mean people are looking at him.”

“Peterson actually said ‘On The Double’?” Kuval’s frown somehow gets frownier.”

I raise my hand to continue the story. “That’s what I asked, I mean after waiting for Mike to finish his laughing fit, which lasted like two plus minutes.  Hell, I could’ve gone for coffee. Anyway, Mike nods and says ‘that is EXACTLY what he said.’ So I say ‘huh’ and start to think about it.”

“What’s there to think about?” Kuval says, shaking his head.

“There’s actually quite a lot to think about.  I mean, just what does ‘On The Double’ mean?”

“What are you talking about? It means fast.  Peterson wanted the file fast.”

“Ok I get that, but just how fast?” Kuval opens his mouth but my raised hand stops him. “See, my question, the big question in my mind, is this: does ‘On The Double’ mean faster than ‘ASAP’ or not as fast? That’s the big question in my mind.”

He stares at me for what seemed like a very long time.  Then he looked down and shook his head.  “So what happened then?”

“Then I call Peterson.”

“To ask him that question?” Kuval looks back up. His face is a little tight, like he’s afraid to hear my answer.

“A couple questions actually.  So I call him up and I say ‘this is Payne. I got a couple questions for you,’” Kuval’s face goes frowny again. “First, why did you call Mike if you wanted something from me? And second, does ‘On The Double’ mean faster than ‘ASAP’ or not as fast?”

Again Kuval looks at me for a long time before speaking. “What did he say?”

“Nothing. He hung up on me. Then I’m guessing he called Felton, his boss to tattle on me. Right?”

Kuval closed his eyes and nodded. “Right. And then Felton called somebody.”

“You?”

He shook his head and gave me a flat look. “He called Shambly.”

Hearing the name “Shambly” actually shocked me. He was the current commissioner who was about to vacate the office to run for governor. “Well shit.”

“Funny, that was my reaction when Shambly called me.” His face was a little sad, disappointed.

“Dave I’m sorry.” He nodded. “I’ll get the files to Peterson.” It was very, very hard not to say “On The Double”.

He nodded.  “What else?” His look was serious and for some reason I felt no desire to laugh.

“I’ll apologize.”

“Thank you.” He nods.  I start to leave when he starts talking again. “We’re not done.” He jerks his head towards the open door as I turn back into the room. “Close the door.”

And I’m scared.  I close the door and sit down.  My smart mouth suddenly does not feel too smart.

“Do you know why this upsets me so much?

I shrugged. “It makes you look bad to the commissioner?”

He shook his head. “Not really. Shambly knows the score. He actually thought it was kind of funny,” he took a long breath. “Just between you and me, I’m not worried about getting the commissioner job.  That’s pretty much a lock.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is, who replaces me?” He looked at me and clearly expected an answer.

“I don’t know Dave.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Just that, I don’t know.”

His open hand slams down on the desk hard enough to rattle the office windows. “Jesus Payne!  I do not understand you! Are you familiar with your stats?” He stood and started to pace behind his desk.

“My stats?” I now knew exactly where this was going.

He was gesturing with his hands as he spoke. “Your stats.  You’ve got the highest closure rate in the city, maybe in the county.” I actually have the highest closure rates in the city, the county, and was second in the state. “Imagine if you headed the department and could teach just a few of the other homicide detective your stuff.” His voice was hard, serious and a little angry. The thing is I had imagined it.  And imagining it made me both excited and really scared.  Because what if I couldn’t?  What if all the things that made me a great detective made me a really lousy department head?  Could I live with that?  I knew that I couldn’t. His voice shocked me away from my doubts. “So what will it take for you to know?  What will it take for you to be sure?”

“I don’t know!  Do you need and answer today?  Right now?”

He sat down and sighed. “Not today. But soon.”

“Well just how fucking…” my question was cut off by a knock on the window of the door. I looked around to see Mike then back at Dave.  He jerked his head and Mike opened the door.

Mike’s face was blank and serious as he spoke.

“Sorry to butt in..Nick, you’ve got a call,” there was an odd formality in his tone that was not like him.

“Can you take a message?”

He shook his head. “You need to take it.  It’s your cousin Teresa.” He took a breath.  “I think it’s about your dad.”

 

 

 

NEG: So you had some questions?

Me: I did.

NEG: Go ahead.

Me: Umm, it would help if I could see you.

NEG: I don’t generally do visibility.

Me: Why?

NEG: Seeing me tends to fuck people up.

Me: Wow! Can’t believe you said that.

NEG: What?

Me: You know…the “F” word.

NEG: You mean fuck?

Me: Well yeah.

NEG: It’s just a word.

Me: Well… lots of people think you.. I mean people in general shouldn’t use that word in polite company.

NEG: Why?

Me: It’s considered a profane word.

NEG: Really?

Me: Yeah.

NEG: You know what words are really profane?  Words like..

Me: I don’t mean to interrupt, but are you gonna go down the whole “nigger, jew, war, poverty, etc” road?

NEG: Well yeah, I was.

Me: Don’t you think that’s kind of tired?

NEG: I hadn’t really thought about it.

Me: Well it is just bit cliché.

NEG: Look, when you’ve been around as long have, it’s hard to not be cliché.

Me: I guess I get that. So I can’t see you?

NEG: I guess I could manifest myself in a form that might not fuck you up.

Me: That would be great!

NEG: How’s this?

Me: Umm… you look just like me.

NEG: I thought looking just like you would be less upsetting.

Me: Uhh… I appreciate the effort but it’s still a little creepy.

NEG: Ok, how about this?

Me: Oh My God!  Wow! Sorry!

NEG: (Chuckling) It’s no problem.

Me: You look and sound just like Doris Day when I was a kid.

NEG: She was your first crush, wasn’t she?

Me: Well yeah.

NEG: So you like it?

Me: It’s cool. Man, it’s amazing!

NEG: Thought you’d like it. (reaches out to touch my leg) You know, if you’d like we could…

Me: We could what?

NEG: You know…. Fuck.

Me: (Slaps hand away) OH MY FUCKING GOD! DON’T EVEN SUGGEST THAT!

NEG: Why not? It’s always been your fantasy?

Me: BUT YOU’RE GOD!  YOU’RE FUCKING GOD!

NEG: Right now I’m fucking Doris Day in her prime. Or more to the point, YOU could be fucking Doris Day in her prime.

Me: But you’re not Doris Day, you’re God!

NEG: I’m a lot of things.  Right now I’m an attractive woman who would be more than happy to fuck you.

Me: I couldn’t!

NEG: Why not?  It’s not like she hasn’t done it before.  She’s no virgin.

Me: OF COURSE DORIS DAY IS A VIRGIN!

NEG: Sorry to burst you’re bubble.  Of course I can be a virgin if you like…

Me: NO! NO!  NO FUCKING!

NEG: (Laughing) I was just fucking with you.. I mean.. you know what I mean.

Me: Whew!  That was weird.

NEG: You’re way too uptight.

Me: I’m sorry but I wasn’t ready for that.

NEG: How about this?

Me: Wow!  Now you look just like Captain Picard!

NEG: Thought you’d like this better.

Me: Just don’t offer to fuck me.

NEG: Your loss.  So this is better?

Me: Much better.  It’s perfect.

NEG: Ok, so what questions did you have?

Me: Well…shit, I’ve forgotten them all.

NEG: Told you, seeing me tends to fuck people up.

Me: I had no idea.

NEG: So no questions?

Me: I can’t think of a single one.

NEG: No sweat, if you remember, you know how to reach me?

Me: Sure, just dial “Non Existent God” on the Batphone.

NEG: You got it.  Later  (beams out)

Me: Ok, that was cool!

NEG: (voice) thought you’d like it.

END