Requiem For A Dead Angel

I DID send that post card to Lou, as well as a CD and a blue finger nail, and everything went down pretty much like I expected it too.

Lou and the bulls, CRIME SCENE too, swept down on Eddies crib. They tore the place up and picked up some of the kids hair, a drop of blood too. They matched them to Eddie’s semen in her and had the CD and fingernail.

It was a real feather in Lou’s cap.

He got a merit badge for it, gold star on his cop jacket too.

You know, super cop of the year stuff.

Lou made a speech, kissed some babies, shook the mayor’s hand, and of course never let out a peep about moi.

I also sent along fifteen grand, fat envelop, c-notes for my cop buddy at the gate. Lou chatted him up, guy was glad to be mum. US cops stick together. Hope it kept his kids in sneakers for a long time.

That’s the least I could do for the hard working dicks in blue.

What about Eddie Jett?

Well it went down like this.

In Vegas well, it takes all kinds to make a pudding. I got this contact through my gangster buddy King, super duper, hard, black stud, who runs his gang empire down here in N. Las Vegas. I gave him a toddle doo on my cell. King, he knew just the right dude to help me with my special problem. I knew the guy too, a little.

Well he’s a doc, or used to be, before he got his license jerked out from under him. Seems he’d been selling party treats, mostly prescription drugs to Lawyers, doctors, ex rock stars and teenagers. You know, like Oxycontin, which made it hard for the teeners, making them steal the stuff out of their parent’s bath room drawers now.

He had oodles of dough, used to live in this exclusive part of Vegas, real posh. You know, walled estates, lots of video feeds, lots a Third Reich cars and other stuff the rich need to prove their somebody to impress people that don’t really give a shit.

No more though, blew all of it. Apparently he ran bad, craps, drugs, whores, heroin and such. Now he stacked out in the shit box in the desert. That’s what King told me.

I heard of this guy, a real sicko, heroin habit out of this world. Think I mentioned that, strung out on the edge, like a lot of folks in a city with no memory. He was just the kind of guy I needed.

Has this nice little clinic, you know, a FIXER, a mob guy. Repairs gunshot, knife, and baseball bat wounds for stick up guys, gang bangers, car-jacker’s and such. You know, the usual folks trying to eek out a living during this depression. He lives out in the desert, real remote, lots of Horn Toads for neighbors I suppose.

SO I zoomed out there after King hit him up first on his mobile.

Sure no problema, money, yeah she’s got loads if it, yeah, anything, send her bye. Take care of her, ya hear.

So I did. I parked the Buick and the place looked like a shit box. It was run down, dead car chassis resting near the cactus. It had news papers in the windows and nobody for miles all around

Perfect.

Sometimes a man’s screams can bring nosy neighbors, not here though.

Doc met me at the door. He was wasted, old, white hair, eyebrows, maybe sixty, looked eighty. Black Tar does that to a man, hands shaking. I was glad I had my tonsils out.

Doc was hospitable, invited me in and gave me a beer. The place smelled like a toilet, crap everywhere, old food, mold, dirty dishes everywhere.

I think he had a dead parakeet in a cage, don’t know.

Doc didn’t look like he ate much fiber. I was gonna mention that, but we got to it, me sitting on the couch feeling the springs hurting my ass. The beer was good though.

We pow wowed, a bit, back and forth, me being a straight to the point kinda girl that I am.

I guess there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do, for the right coin. Probably give his dear old mom an abortion with a coat hanger, if the money was right.

And Jane, yeah, sure, no problem, moneys right, when do you want to get started, come on, let’s take a looky-loo at the clinic.

He was kinda proud of that.

Doc had a CAN DO kind of attitude, and I appreciated that.

He gave me the ten dollar tour, the operating room too, if you can call it that. It looked swell to me.

Had a big bed, oxygen bottles, lots of scalpels, spat hulas, hack saws, cutters, electric drills, lots of cat gut, would need that. It had a drain in the center of the concrete floor to catch all the fluids. I guess it seemed perfect to me.

We cut the deal real quick like. I told him a friend of mine named Earl would be vistin’. He was the kind of man that could be trusted, good with saws, power drills and such.

Doc said. ”Fine, King said I was all that. No appointment needed.”

I laid off fifteen grand to him, made him cross his heart and hope to die that he wouldn’t get fucked loopy until the job was done. Said he was a Boy Scout once, never lied.

“Sure doc, no problem.” I reminded him about King.

That seemed to make the promise stick. I knew it would.

OK, doc had this gurney thing, little rubber wheel’s on it. It was nice, real professional. We wheeled her out to the Buicks trunk, opened her and, then off loaded Eddie on to it. He was wining about something, couldn’t make hide nor tails of what.

I guess the duct tape wrapped around his terrorized face was responsible for that.

Now doc, was kind of scrawny, heart could have had a few tick tocks left in it.

Heroin does that to a man, a Pop Tart diet too.

So me being the thoughtful gal that I am, I did most of the gurney pushin.’ Doc was real grateful for that. I, not one to use big language, you know showing off and all, said. ”It ain’t nothin’ doc. Glad to help.”

It only took a few minutes to get Eddie settled in to his new home. He groused a lot, screamed into the duct tape. I couldn’t figure out what he was saying. I know it was something important. Maybe I’d chat about it later with him.

We made sure the sheets were tucked real nice right under the blood dripping off his chin. And, then me being the prankster and all took his shattered finger, gave it a real healthy tug. He screamed into the duct tape. I could see he didn’t like that.

Geesh, he was one ungrateful, ex head liner and hurt my feeling a bit. I knew I would eventually get over it.

Doc was nice as he walked me out to my Buick, said. “Sweet ride.”

I said thanks, fired her up and in a plume of dust I whizzed off, doc waving his goodbyes behind me, full moon there in my rear view mirror.

Wind in my sails, I hit up King, bought him a coffee at a Starbucks, one we both co owned and I convinced him to buy. He was grateful for that. I also got him into two Burger Kings, a couple of Taco Bells, some other stock stuff to wash his crime syndicate money legal clean.

You know, like Kinder Morgan, that pipe line, oil mover conglomerate over their near Houston, pays about %17 dividend, cash money for every nickel you give them. My pimp brokers turned me on to them. So I turned King onto it. Can’t be a gangster forever, I figured.

Anyhooo, King loves my style, never forgets a friend, and has this pal of his named Earl. He’s real spooky, about six foot six, three hundred pounds, all nigger muscle. I hate that vile word, but that’s how King describes him.

King says Earls a savant with a pair of bolt cutters, good with a blow torch too, occasionally likes a chain saw. I said Naw, probably wouldn’t need that, but that is what Kind excels at. I listen to him about those things.

King understands me, knows I’m a princess with a heart of gold. I love him for that.

XXX

So back to this gorgeous Kong friend of Kings.

Earl was one of those Guys.

You know. Some guy, addicted to gambling, just sure this time he’s got a sure thing, hits up King for the bet because the casinos won’t touch him with a ten foot pole. He lays his kids tuition on the 5th at Belmont.

WHAMO.

The fucking pony, home stretch, leading all the way, sees a shadow, veers off, breaking its leg and, then a bullet in its head. Next stop the slaughter house and a one way trip to McDonalds.

Then Earl comes visiting, big gold tooth grill, the VIG is %30, a week. Earl, looking like a feeding Mako shark, doesn’t say much, no need to do so. He mentions something, off the cuff about a wood chipper out there near Barstow.

Then the guy digs the money out of the floor boards looking for quarters He sells his and his wives wedding rings, jewelry, furniture, Beamer, maybe even a kid. Anything, just so Earl won’t ever visit again.

He seems perfect, so I cut a deal to rent out ole Earl, think he’s from Alabama. King says he’s a country kid, can bend iron bars with his gold teeth, just for fun.

I offered to pay for Earl. King said. “Naw doll, pro bono, I owe ya for the fast food joints, don’t worry yer pretty little head about nothin’.”

I kind of blushed from the compliment. Old traits die hard, though it would be a while before I slept sans nightmares again.

So, Earl as was promised was the real deal.

It took only a first visit from Earl for Eddie to give up the other doc’s name. I guess a bolt cutter and a couple of fingers gone made Eddie get religion. Get it right quick.

Doc was there, my doc, and worked hard for me. He was stitching, mending, lots of oxygen, alcohol, sutures, making sure Eddie over the weeks didn’t bleed out or get some kind of nasty infection.

Nothing gained if he got any life threatening infections from all the snipping and cutting Earl was doing. Doc cared real good for Eddie. I appreciated that.

After all of Eddie’s fingers went AWOL, Earl began with the toes. That seemed to go slow, but Earl had a great work ethic, even though it took a couple of weeks to do the job right.

I was impressed and I had to say thank you, some how, so I snuck ten grand into Earls leather work apron, the one with all the blood on it. He was very happy about that, and we bonded.

I was happy making such a nice, new friend.

I wasn’t there for most of it. I’m a bit squeamish about such things.

Since Missy, I’m re evaluating my life, trying to be a bit more feminine, adding more value to my life. But near the end, I got a picture of the kid from the tombs from Lou.

I put it on the end of the bed, you know, just to remind Eddie that he fucked with the wrong bitch. I wanted to remind him of what he had done was a very bad thing.

I hoped he could see it, because he only had one eyeball left at the time. I think he did, because he kept blinking it at me. Me wondering what he was trying to say to me that late in the game.

After I had left, Earl felt it was times to wrap things up. So he cut off Eddie dick and stapled it to his forehead, which I figured had to hurt like hell.

Doc stitched him up, and loaded him into Earl’s old school, 63 Cadillac, Coup Deville. We both-dug classic rides, drove him out to the desert, strapped him to a cactus and pretty much, with a job well done feeling, let the coyotes do the rest.

Me, well I haven’t been sleeping so well lately, but that will pass. I still have stuff on my mind, two things still to do, just to make it all right with my girl Missy.

I have to make a visit to the other doc, the one that cut up my babies womb and lobes and make that right. I know Earl will help, he’s my new bud.

Then I have to go to Toys or Us, keep my promise to Lou, and buy his kid a pink Teddy Bear.

Lou’s kid will like that. I know Lou will too

XXX

Me Jane, you, what ever, for sure not fucking Tarzan.

I’ve been feeling bent cold lately, like a rolled iron loop de loop bitch. You know, like a Coney Island roller coaster, curved in a leap of death, near the pier pilings. There rotting, wasted away from the salt tear drops of an unrelenting army of a sea’s vengeance, crewed of ocean soldiers. No memory, no pity, corroding soul killers as old as ancient time.

I’m a lost smart Alec cunt, lately that is. I’m feeling leaderless, no general to guide me. I’m usually very fucked up, in a good way, but not now.

It feels bad this time and that’s about it.

I’ve been feeling like that ever since I seen the kid Missy Smith looking like 98 pounds of dead, white zinc, over there at the Tombs, at N. Vegas Metro.

Normally I dig it here, the dumpster world and my massive loft, just above Chang’s laundry.

I like the sound of the gun shots that rack this part of bad N Las Vegas. Even love the garbage strewn alleyway’s where the dead bodies splinter, decomposing near the dumpsters. Life is odd, and I exist in unison near the gang cribs, shoot up houses, city block thug empires, held, fought and died for tooth and nail. Fought for, for no other reason at all, except that’s all they got and that’s all their ever gonna get.

Fuck, I wouldn’t live anywhere else.

I keep having these night mares.

You know, its summer and I’m on the boardwalk in Coney. I lived on the East Coast for a bit, know it well. I can smell it, taste it, you know, snow cones, blood as the neon that lights the coaster timbers, screeching iron wheels in the big dip, near the cotton candy vendors and the bumps of the bumper cars.

I keep seeing this kid, white dress, white hair, showing up and, then vanishing. There are the usual crowds spinning near the Ferris wheel. Throw a dime on a dish and win a pink moose.

Missy’s there. Then she’s not.

It’s a summer night filled with strolling Chechen’s, Uzbek’s, Russian mob guys out of Perth Amboy, Brighton Beach and The Jersey Shore. There ex cannibals out of the savage gulags of Siberia. Hard men shooting the water pistols for a purple teddy bear for their screaming kids. It’s a surreal world of death, life and pain, and normally I dig that kind of vibe.

But, I can’t wake, claw my way out of this dream thing, mostly because the kid keeps calling my name.

Jane, Jane, Janie girl, come find me if you can.

I move through the crowds, filled with the usual suspects, ghetto gangs bangers, street hitters, kinda dudes that chat it up with zip guns, duct taped pistol handles of Saturday Night Specials gone bad.

The place is puissant with Wise Guys, Mick’s, Greeks gangster wannabees, Cambodians addicted to the Fan- Fan tables, Haitians, Hispanics of every ilk. Lots of duck tailed Puerto Rican pimps turning out their girl friends for the street life, and the hard men and bitches that run with them.

I know I’m dreaming, cant abort out of it.

Then I see those bare feet, a swish of a white smock, white hair moving by the carrousel, wooden horses, camels, elephants, kids on them, nab a gold ring, if you’re quick. There’s gangsters watching, proud, and there she is again, moving out and around the crowds.

I follow her. I can smell’s her scent. It smells like white cut roses as she still gaily calls me.

Janie, Janie please come find me.

She’d be a sweetie pie, if she wasn’t’ stone cold dead.

I track her out of the amusement park.

I see a light flash of her. I move past the throngs strolling on the Board Walk. There are strollers, kids, dogs on leashes, tattoo parlors, places selling Coney dogs, foot longs, mustard jars and relish if you want it. Kids are eating pink cotton candy and other sodium laced junk that’s killing Americans.

There she is, on the white sand, moving towards the decaying pier

I follow her, hear a tiny little voice. “Janie, Janie, come find me.”

I can feel the sand, quenching between my toes.

Zingo, she’s gone, vanishing underneath the pier. Some guys dropping lines and fish hooks in the salt, above me. Guess they don’t mind mackerel stuffed full of Mercury.

I can smell her, there’s that flower scent again.

It’s kinda dark under the pier, salt water on my toes as I move into it.

Silhouette, little blond girl, in the shadows, don’t blame her for the lights are bright in The Tombs.

I see her, I think and, then my mind goes bright, illuminating her. My eyes dead bolt open, as the light, that fucking light exposes her, the new her.

She’s smiling, and she’s white, dead paste white, naked, purple, red cat gut holding her together. Her forehead is missing. Brains are spilling out like worms. Stacked in her hands is a bouquet of burning black flowers.

Why the fuck is she smiling at me? Trying to suck air into my thundering eyes, I can’t stand and fall to my knees, salt water, not the sea, spilling down my cheeks.

Raising my arms to her, I want to hold her, protect her and, then she whispers to me, driving a spike through my heart.

“Why Jane, why Jane couldn’t you protect me? Why did you let them do this to me?”

My lips mumble, tremor, me body vibrating, teeth chattering. I shriek, bend and pound the sand with my fists.

I wake in my loft, the skylights high above and it is raining, eyes stark like pool balls, hyperventilating, terrified and irate.

Slapping at my bruised face with my hands, clawing at it, I try to rip HER FACE out of my brain.

Time moves, I calm, it’s a Zen thing.

Reaching to an old pine table, I love English antiques, next to my old iron rung bed, I can barely get a Marlboro out of the pack.

Finding my Zippo, tough girl stuff, my image, am so sick of image, light it up, shove it between my bruised lips Eddie Jett left me as a present.

Wincing, I drag on my smoke as I watch the smoke filter thirty feet up to my skylights, rain banging on them. I get it together, just a bit, throw the white down comforter back, and groan.

I see all the blue welts, black and blue on my no breasts, cuts, tiny tummy, legs, arms, more slashes from the glass and the two red dots on one small tit.

They are just just like the ones on Missy over there at the morgue.

The nightmares, they mean something to me. I think there telling me I have to do something, something else with my crapped up life. I love who I am, toe to toe with life.

Take no prisoners, rumble, mix it up, generous with the poor, I give, but maybe not enough.

I screw the pooch sometimes and get a beat down, so what. But it’s a fucking honest life. It’s my life.

I am way too far into sex with my girls and I’m not a sex addict, but close.

Maybe enough is finally enough?

I look around my four thousand foot loft, it’s filled with the stuff I love, pine floors, grooved, pegged and sanded. I did it all myself.

English pine everywhere, armoires, tables, benches, over stuffed couch, with leaf green cushions. There are Persian rugs on the floor, big bay windows showing the Vegas Strip lights off on the distance. Antique lamps, one a Tiffany, another a Handel, others from the twenties, strung beads falling down the base, blown colored glass, Steuben vases, flowers in them.

I’ve got this sweet Hispanic doll of a cleaning lady Armida that brings flowers, puts water in the vases. She loves tulips, makes the place nice for me. She even feeds Gumbo and Stella, my gold fish.

There probably the only things I will allow myself to love. That’s how fucked up I am.

Lots a stuff about me, folks in Vegas don’t know.

I’m a white girl, was a model once, not really by choice, just to see what was what. You know, just fucking around, use what you have, see if some muck would pay me for nothing. For being empty shell pretty. Still have pics of me when I was a young shallow thing.

I glance at them some times, you know, just to remind myself that I once could break a man down from a single glance from my blues. I still can of course, but don’t, unless its work related. Being a young model seemed important at the time, until I fucking woke up and got out of the self induced coma I was in.

AT the moment I am having major self esteem problems.

I went to NYU and after that I went to Parsons. I hated that, tried to be an artist. I had no talent. I had huge ego, bombed out of that gig. Hit up Wharton Business School, did four in two and got my MBA.

Went to Goldman Sachs, filled out their standard job application that went like this:

Would you be willing to be a heartless, ruthless, sociopathic habitual liar? Checked the box “YES”...Gold Star.

Would you be willing to steal every fucking schilling away from widows and orphans? Checked the box “YES”...Gold Star.

Would you be willing to take a machete and cut the head off another broker so Goldman Sachs could have another fucking billion-dollar day? Checked the box “YES”...Gold Star.

Would you be willing to sell your own grand mother to white slavers if she got in the way of advancement? Checked the box “YES”...Gold Star

Would you be willing to drive your Lamborghini to CEO Lloyd Blankfeins billion dollar palatial mansion in the Hamptons, go yachting, play polo and snort cocaine off of the tits of eighteen year old idiot super models? Checked the box “YES YES” Gold Star.

I checked that box twice

And it went on and on, and because I didn’t wear any panties that day, and checked all the right answers in the YES box, they were ready to sign me on the spot.

They even offered me a huge bonus. Of course that is if I sucked the guys cock off in the cloak room later.

In the end, I said “Naw.”

I’d rather be a serial killer, because at least I could work with purpose, respect, dignity and be able to sleep at night.

XXX

Anyhooo, in an insane Pentecostal American life which made no sense to me, marriage, kids, mortgages, PTA’s, lie’s, deceit, some fuck wad tired of fucking you, now that was crazy.

You know, banging the gal at the bowling alley, bad ratted hair like Sarah Palin.

You know.

Click, click, click on three inch heels, man-made tits, bee hive, balancing a tray of vodka gimlets and too much eye liner and mascara on raccoon eyes.

Typical MO, some bimbo outta Perth Amboy thinking a bottle of bleach and Pamela Anderson Tits was the bong.

After, her legs are thrown to the air at the Paradise Motel, neon sign-missing some light bulbs as your husband butt-fucks her. He then buys her a cheap gold plated locket with a picture of himself in it. It’s the oldest story in the book and always leads to a one way street to nowhere.

I heard that only Snow Geese mate for life. Why, because their fucking dumb birds, that’s why.

It was tough being beautiful, so young, having this brain, IQ, north a 160. What’s a girl to do, especially if their stone ice berg crazy?

Then I got lucky. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no sociopath, but a gift is a gift, and I was looking, looking hard for something.

Then, the parents, outside of the Paris we’re pulverized when that super sleek white bird Concord went down in flames outside of Paris. Already mentioned that, but it just still hurts so bad.

Fate took my loving and so loved parents from me. I still find myself crying late at night. Can’t help myself, I loved them so.

The accident made me something new, something unique, I hope.

Wept when my parents were creamed and I felt a sadness that never leaves. You know, drilled in my heart.

Destiny, fate, well, you have the grab the bitches by the throat or you don’t when they show up. I did.

I opted, to another way, a harder way, a more honest way.

I educated myself, learned Spanish, German, French and Italian, working on Chinese, since the little yellow guys are going to get all the loot anyways.

Fuck, Chang down stairs got tons of coin cemented in the walls, hardest working folks I ever seen.

Read until my eyes closed, learned a lot.

Spent about a year and a half in Europe, saw a lot of old stuff. I fucked the guy who poled the boat around Venice, played my cunt like a guitar, a real Jeff Beck stud.

I whistled Ole sola Mia while he did it and, had about a zillion orgasms. Rare thing those back then.

I woke up to find my jewelry gone, didn’t mind, the kid had shown me a Jake time. I’ve never bought another bauble since except my gold Latina cross.

Found the French Rivera, St Tropez, Cannes, Nice. I got a million invites to ride around on motor boats, me being so young, beautiful and all. I hung on yachts old guys owned, ate caviar and drank lots of bubbly and fucked a lot.

Shagged a lot of pretty gifts, danced all night, did drugs, all of them and partied till dawn. I felt pretty good for people seemed to like me; especially old men with limp dicks.

I ended up in Ibiza and island off Spain, hedonistic, bacchanal party place and a drug nirvana.

The sex station was over flowing with models, gorgeous girls, boys and Medellin Cartel super tankers off loading cargo containers of E, coke, shrooms and ganja.

Most nights I ended up in this amphitheater club. It was an insane place where you got guys on the balconies that we’re shooting foam on your naked body. Everyone dancing and drug induced love was everywhere.

Used up my Disney ticket book of girl fantasies, fell for a French model on vacay. Gigi was her name.

I did boat loads of “E”, a lot.

Turned out the bitch was insane. We had sex for a week, went through a gallon of K-Y Jelly, at least. She was fucking nuts.

I snuck out one morning, tip toes, cunt needing a-steel-belted retread and caught a space ship to Madrid. Blasted to Tokyo, hoping the crazed slut wasn’t going to shadow me there.

I liked Japan, cool people, not very tall. Folks there eat a lot of fish, something wrong with their eyes.

I found a dojo outside of Kyoto, signed up for Judo, Karate, Kimbo lessons. Was taught by this small guy, wore white pajamas and got my ass handed to me on a chop stick. It was long overdue and well needed and a real beat down.

The guy could put his fingers through a plate of stainless steel. He called me daughter at the end, dug my vibe. I never cried, bitched, no boo hoo’s, gritted through it, stood, got slapped down, stood up and took more.

Boogied out of Japan, Asia, India, Africa, the Middle East for a year or two and, then that was it.

Passed the entro exam at Wharton, did my prison time and, then vanished.

Vegas, can you believe it?

Of all the gin joints in all-the world to hang a girl’s sombrero, I hung it here.

Go fucking figure.

After a while I got my pilots license and bought me a sweet blue, white King Air flying machine.

The stud has duel props, long range, rad flying machine, named her Betty. Keep her over there at Nellis Air Force Base.

I’ve got a bud there, Major, pulled some strings for me for he owed me a chip on life. I got his run away daughter back to him. No coffin, alive and all of her toes and fingers still connected to her body. He owed me and it had been a come-back-favor. I appreciated that.

Being an ex British bird it was the last place I thought I’d ever hang my baseball-hat was Vegas. It sorta drew me their, moth to the comet tail, don’t know why. I

I found it a perfect fit.

You know hard, decadent, criminal element, evil, dangerous and beautiful, me nuts-o, and all. Why not? I could of ended up in Bingley making crumpets. I didn’t.

So, I skipped outta the East Coast, arrived one night by a flying machine and gave the Sodom and Gomorrah a lookey-loo.

I hated the glitz and pompous shit of The Strip, found depraved N. Vegas and bought my loft from Chang.

Chang’s, I almost forgot. I have to take my leather pants down to the cleaners, blood all over them and get them cleaned and my zipper fixed on my leather hip huggers.

Anyhooo. The rest of the story, oh yeah.

I then got my Buick, tricked her out in Tijuana. I studied real hard and got my PI license and gun license too. I bought lots of cool guns. Learned how to shoot out in the desert, tin cans and never any lizards and made friends, mostly cops.

The rest is history and I became me, a lucky hard, demur dervish, whisper girl.

Jane, Vegas PI. Girl.

Anyhooo, time to kick it and have been avoiding it for I feel like Manny Pachio thumped on me all night.

I can barley peek-a-boo out of my swollen right eye, cuts and blue/yellow bruises all over me. Every bone, tendon and muscle aches, really aches, every time I move, which of course, turns me on.

Geese Jane, just get you’re self committed.

Haven’t eaten in three days and thought of maybe a donut, maybe one with a hole in it. I am down to 118 and that’s even thin for 5-11 moi.

Secretly I love it, still fighting the eating disorder wars. I once binged, purged, wanted my smile and teeth intact and gave it up. It was a smart thing to do. Teeth are important.

Missy Smiths got me thinking why I can’t commit and why I can’t fall, you know in love. Maybe get something real in my life.

Most likely not with a guy of course for I sorta gave up on the species long time ago.

I peek, peek, peek out the window and across the alley at the loft there. I groan, he’s not there, maybe later.

Keep dreaming Janie.

I’m into girl so much and like I said before, pretty much into gals except That Secret across the alley from me.

That is unless Robert Redford buzzes me down stairs, dry cleaning in his hand, looking for Chang’s dry cleaners, maybe a knob polishing. I could do that.

A girl can only dream, can’t she?

OK, now, the new honest, better Jane.

Speaking of radical dudes, I peek out my loft window AGAIN at another artists loft across the alley.

Nope, not there, but I was hopin.’

I still have my gold fish though. I love Gumbo and Stella. But what am I gonna do when they drown and flip on their sides, those bug eyes of theirs opaque, like Missy’s?

Can fish Drown? Don’t know. Will have to Google that later.

Anyhow, I detest myself right now, self pity, questioning who I am, needy, pathetic, and almost crippled, for my body feels like it got hit by an ice crème truck. There are aches everywhere, sore, inside and out, and that just adds to my woe and weepy feelings.

I touch my eye, black, blue, butter fly stitches on my eyebrow. I did that last night.

It’s eye black and blue water balloon time.

Just fucking great.

That’s all I need is more cuts, bruises everywhere. Now I look like Frankenstein, sans bolts in my neck.

Well, that’s just swell.

Speaking of softness in my life, it’s time for me, me being a voyeur, to check again on something across the alley from me.

I am obsessed.

Tippy-toeing over to one of my windows, I sneak a peek around the window sill at this huge artists loft across the alley from me. I pretty much do this a couple of times a day, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the most stud black artists guys on the planet.

Nope, not there.

I’m fucking in semi-fantasy-love with this amazing black, African artist; more on him later. I’ve become a voyeur. I am not proud of it.

I really could use some softness in my life, maybe a little love. I feel girlish.

Pleeeease, geessh. Give it a fucking break.

I’m blubbering for maybe I need love. I think of Gumbo and Stella.

I don’t know, but I need something meaningful, TLC for real in my life.

Man I hope this mood jets, like real soon.

But, I got to get out of this god damn bed, didn’t sleep much last night. I checked for the pea under my mattress, no pea.

So I move, wince and groan. Christ I feel like my bones are shattered. Adrenaline and endorphins only mask the pain for so long. I know me, and that manic violence, only for awhile, helps cover my mental pain.

But now it’s real and usually not so bad for I love some hurt in my life; just, not fucking right now.

I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, bare feet on the floor and my face in my hands.

“Owe, owe, owe.”

I stand, weave and blink from the pain. “Owe.”

That even that hurts.

I grab a smoke, fire her up with my guy Zippo and inhale. I’m smoking more lately, who cares. Decided to skip the gym, riding my bike, move a few steps, my ankle hurts like fuck.

Looking down, I see it’s swollen, black and blue.

When in the hell did that happen?

Limping to my armoire, I gawk into the full length mirror and groan looking at me.

I look emaciated, which mimics the white smoke trailing to the ceiling, thin. I am white, wisp-ish looking.

I love making up words,

I appear like that smoke again to be unconstructed of form, pale and pallid.

This is as thin as I’ve been in a long time.

Fuck I look like a teenage boy, sans acne. Geesh.

I still get carded when I go to the liquor store

SMILING INSIDE, I’m not really bitching about that as I groan and start to weep.

What am I going to do? My life is a fuck-cicle and its melting right before my eyes.

“Booo hoooo, booo hooo.” Fuck, I am pathetic.

JUST FUCKING GREAT.

XXX

OK, baby steps.

II turn, limpidly dick click across my loft, move into the shower, bathroom, I built myself.

Went to Home Depot, talked to this cool geek, love geeks, was one, still am, just hiding in this eco skeleton of this pretty skin. That sure has done me a lot of fucking-good.

That reminds me of something important. I’ve promised ME that I am going to work on my potty mouth. You know make me a new girl, a better girl. I know for sure that I’m going to fucking work on that.

Fuck, I am hopeless.

Anyhooo, bought me some home improvement books, a tool belt, two actually if you include my handy dandy sex tool belt I used on Glenda and Zoe other various vixens scattered around Vegas.

Hand inlaid these black and grey tiles on the floor, loo and bidet too. I bought lots of wood, lumber they call it, grout, trowels, hammers, nails, saws, levels and power drills and went to work.

It was way cool and I wore my old Levi bib overalls I bought at Sarah’s Classics, this cool vintage clothing store, this doll Sarah runs. I think she’s straight, not sure. I get most of my togs from her and have been trying to fuck her forever.

Borrowed Chang’s pick up truck, love that dude. Rustled up some Mexican day labor honchos, love those folks. I speak fluent Spanish, they appreciated that. I’m kind a proud of that.

Loaded Chang’s banger up with bags of grout, tiles, lumber and all the stuff I bought. I had the Mexican guys drag it all up stairs. Job well done and I gave them two hundred bucks as a tip and got those white smiles back at me.

Fuck, where would the America fucks be without them?

When I was done, I looked like a frosted sugar donut, shit, dirt and dust all over me.

But look, she’s a beauty, huge stall with black-tiles, grey-tiles edging all of it as well as two stripes of grey tiles, double brass nozzles, two teak benches and lots of room to wiggle my tiny toes.

I like to sit when I shower, masturbate and jerk off with my various collections of dildos.

I love the feeling of hot water after I’ve forgotten to bath for a week and shave under my arms. It’s always a girl retreat for me. You know shave the legs, clean-up down there, had that laser beam thingy take IT all off, me hating hair so much. So that’s never a problem.

Got a toothbrush, some shampoo, you know in those plastic squirt bottles, some soap on a rope too.

And now, MAN, that hot water feels just so fine.

I always love washing blood off of my body. Girls with good manners do that I have been told. Like I said, I’m trying to become a bit more feminine. I am working hard on that.

Out of the shower, I feel better, a little.

My ankle totally is totally Whammoed.

I made that word up too.

So, I grab a black towel from the rack. I have them layered in the black cabinet I made. Black, grey, black, grey, looks cool. It’s the little things in life that make me happy.

Hating the word style for it’s such a personal thing my bathroom fits my style to a golf tee.

I swish the steam from the mirror, lean in and groan. My eye looks like a black and blue mushroom cap, lips swollen, cut and my eye brow too.

Eddie Jett packed a punch. I think of Eddie, wonderin’ how he’s getting along with his new coyote amigos. I don’t know. I am sure it will all work out in the end.

Limp out of the bathroom.

“Owe, owe and owe.”

My ankle is swollen as I move to a pine armoire. Avoiding more mirror gazing, I grab a pair of cut at the ankle white dance leotards, Danskin.

I pull them on like a second skin, grab a white-hoodie. I’m in to white this morning and feel all virginish; all new and such.

Throw it on, exhale and hear the rain smacking the sky lights. I love rain and it is rare in Vegas; Sin City being a boiling desert and all.

I need coffee, its cold out this morning, not that cold though. Turning, I limp to my kitchen, same deal, black, grey tiles, big pine chopping block, four gas burners set in it, cabinets stainless steel sink set into the grout.

I can’t cook for fuck, but am learning. A girl needs a nice kitchen, if she’s going to court another human beings.

Moi built all of it. There’s that horrible, horrible vanity again.

I guess it ain’t so bad. I could have had Eddie’s decorator do it. That is if I knew the bitches name. I should of asked him, but didn’t. It’s too late now.

Move to my coffee machine, pop the lid and put one of those white paper things in the tray. I move to this stainless towering fridge, GE, like Eddies, I think I mentioned that. The wizards there make great stuff, open it and groan thinking of Missy’s last home, a freezer.

I moan again as I see two ancient cartons of Chinese take out, dim sum something, noodle something rotting next to them.

I see the green kiss has arrived; groan again.

Grabbing a can of coffee, Brazilian, back to the coffee machina (that’s Mexican for machine) load her up, hit the button, lean against the chopping block. Finding my smokes, I light one up as I watch the drip, drip, drip of the golden brown life saving liquid as they fill the pot.

I grab my JANE is RAD coffee cup. I had it made special at this little souvenir clinic over there across the street from the Venetian. They do t-shirts too. You know, like with Shit Happens in Vegas stenciled on them.

Boy does it ever.

Like I said, I’m in one of those chill and solemn moods.

So I limp out of the kitchen, “OWE” grab my smokes, Zippo, the one with the Jar Head insignia on it. Moving to this set of double massive window doors, I set down into the chassis of the loft, facing the alley.

I of course take peek-a-boo at my secret admirer’s artist’s loft, two story affair just about a hundred feet across from mine, alley separating both of us.

I mentioned that I am almost totally off men, but for this African God, well I wet-up every time I sneak a peek at him.

He doesn’t seem to be chiseling away at granite at the moment, so I open the windows and sit.

“Owe.”

The cold feels good on my face. Rain is sweet, rare in Vegas as I set my tiny, sore ass on the stoop and bring my knees to my chin. I light a smoke, sip coffee and, then take another sneak peek at a very magical place. That of course is the open window at his artist loft.

I glance-left and look down the alley, no dead bodies, no dead crack whores. That’s good. I see the once vacant lot has been taken and where now a Mexican circus has stacked their claim to a piece of Vegas sod.

They showed up a coupla a months ago after the economy had tanked. They somehow got a license, bearded lady too for I guess some commerce is better than nothing in recession ravaged Vegas.

They threw up the red, white tents, lots of games and booths. You know, throw a ring on a coke bottle, roll a softball into a square hole, make, tic-tack-doe.

These are skills usually only found with some grand yogi from Tibet, but I figured no harm, no foul.

Folks, have to make a living, no problem with that.

They got this miniature Ferris wheel, lots of neon blinking on a loop de loop. Happy kids are puking, screaming and having a hoot on the pony ride. I think their ponies, not like the kind I see at the Santa Anita race track.

But the kids like them, guess that’s what counts.

I moseyed over there one night, lots of Hispanic kids, parents, tios and tias; the Hispanic community is tight in Vegas.

There rock solid folks constructed of religion, family and food. I could never figure out what all-the brew ha ha was all about with these fine people. There the back bone of this lazy and insanely monistic nation. I won’t go there for the moment.

Though, I can go off on the subject of what’s wrong in America at the drop of a Peso.

Saw a blind elephant, that fucker could eat some peanuts, also a camel. He had two humps, not three. There we’re some sheep, goats, a llama, a donkey in a pen. They call it a Kids Zoo; don’t know about that.

They had a lion in a cage. Big fella and he seemed like most of the residents in Vegas, pissed and stoned. He wasn’t roaring, just kept pacing back and forth, leering through the bars, big yellow eyes, angry eyes.

I thought of sneaking over there late at night, springing him, getting him a one way ticket back to Zimbabwe. Maybe make him happy. Maybe fuck the other girl lions, something like that. But, I didn’t.

I got a thing for clowns, and it is not a good thing. They give me the spooks. You know, grown men, make up, sandals, wearing funny clothes, hangin’ with little boys and girls. Weird men, making the kids laugh, touchy feely stuff.

FUCK, that’s it, I get it.

That’s where all those defrocked Catholic Priests go after they get bounced from the parish after they get caught with their frocks down around their ankles with little Billy.

Don’t know why I never put two and two together before. It makes perfect sense to me.

Anyway, back to the black artist god-man across the alley.

No secret, I have this sexual current running non stop through my blood veins, complicated as they are and all are trying to connect to my cunt, a screaming Mimi.

Hey, that’s funny. Fuck, even that hurts when I giggle.

I’ve begging for some gal, (switched years ago, though the Flicks cremation was fun) to do something to it, anything. Maybe drill it with a jack hammer, sand it smooth with an air grinder, rack and pinion it, just do something, for I’m growing tired of meaningless sex.

OH REALLY?

Like I said, Missy has made me begin to reevaluate my life. I hope not too late.

For look at me, pathetic, ugly me who looks like she just went twelve with Evander Hollyfield.

Where did I put my hand gun? Christ. I have to get out of this self pity blue mood.

Ike, that’s his name, the black African artist across the alley has changed that, well mostly for me.

Though, all of this shit is happening to me in my real time fantasy and voyeur world.

He’s got muscles on muscles and shoulders like an air craft carrier, and lately, well my thinking on men has been tweaked.

In my mind, he is the only guy I want to fuck me blind. Though, because I will never change, I have recently sinned with my EMO and Goth girl loves, you know like Glenda and Zoe.

But that didn’t count, because well, she was Glenda and Zoe was Zoe.

For awhile I liked tattooed biker girls, but they got their own bullet men to Tap there booties. I see I’m at the Tattoo parlor down the street, never went there, don’t mind the pain, just don’t want ink on me.

Ink is forever and now I hear that tick tock, tick tock in my noggin, meaning something really boffo is going to happen, or I’m in real trouble, and of course that scenario is across the alley, just there.

XXX

I spend some time drinking coffee and smoking while the rain kisses my face and feet.

And, then presto-chango that’s him across the way, over there in his two story loft, top floor.

Ike’s his name, I think I mentioned that before. Is that just the coolest name or what?

He’s like a world famous black sculptor, stone and granite, marble too, welder artist godly dude so obsidian black beautiful, he melts my mind.

He’s corded muscles, thin, shaved head, about 6ft 2, maybe 180, white teeth like the marble he blasts his chisel into.

Fuck, I wet-up just watching him, which I do every moment I get.

He showed up about a year and a half ago, which was a very good thing.

Voyeur, god I’m ashamed to say I am, but I am. There, I said it. I

I’m a sick girl and never have I denied that.

I mean I don’t sneak around looking in windows, you know like Chang’s.

Think I would die dead seeing Chang fucking Sehi-Shei, his wife.

I know they do it. There are four kids to prove it. But, some things are better left to my imagination. You know, like what Ike would look like totally naked?

It’s not like the fucking Zeus man doesn’t have a boat load of female beauty type girly girls hanging around his cut, muscled bod. Christ I’ve seen them come and go, come and go. None of their tooth brushes ever stay the night, see the dawn.

I often lay in my bed at night, windows open, listening to Monk, Miles and Cole Porter creaming across the expanse from his loft. That makes the summer cool, bearable, nice for me. Christ I love that black guy, really I do. I cringe as that word again love clanks like an anvil to the floor. Yet delusion for me out-lives my reality.

Get it together, “Owe.”

My body hurts even when I breathe.

He stays single though, for I know passion and his work always comes first. He is a very cool, studly onyx black man, smiling all the time, frowning when the granite gives him hell.

I am jealous he hasn’t come on to me before.

Oh really?

I am sure he knows I exist and if he does, then why not love me too.

Me, me, me, me.

Am I really winning like this?

STOP, SHUT UP, OK.

I get a look at times, accompanied by a smile, which drenches my cunt.

Lately I’ve stumbled into him, sometimes at the street, few coffee cafes now and then, as well as an internet café. Our street is showing some hope in growing, barley.

He’s always in his heavy leather welder pants, leather apron late at night. I stroll around when I can’t sleep and we chat. If I didn’t know better, he almost seems interested in me.

Said he heard I was a PI, had strong street creds, thought that it was cool.

Information and MO’s twitter around Vegas like a soaring sparrow. Do not know where he heard that info on me. I didn’t ask.

He’s super duper intelligent, funny, not self absorbed like a lot of artists with far less gifts then he has in those calloused hands. He’s actually humble, a rarity in these self absorbed, ego centric days.

Why I don’t limpty limp dick click over there and beg him to drive that chisel into my cunt, into my ass, best into my forehead I don’t know.

Fuck, I’m so messed up it makes me sick

Lately, I’ve caught him staring at me from across the alley, nothing suspect and nothing obvious.

Probably curious, enjoying the freak show that I am. Yet, more than not he’s been hangin’ around more than I can understand. The bevy of empty heads he usually bed’s have been vacant lately. Christ, my imagination is running amok just thinking of that amazing Africans, (he is British/ Ghanaian) arms wrapped around the spinet that I am.

I sit there for awhile, listening to Alicia Keys spiraling from his open window, felt sleepy. I haven’t had a good-night sleep in a while. Missy did that to me.

Finally, totally hurting, I yawned and went to bed, slept like a gold bar, no Missy nightmares thankfully.

Waking, lightening was cracking in the sky. It was evening, rain still pounding my sky lights.

Got up, rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. I limped over to my kitchen and grabbed a glass of wine, back to the stoop. I smoked, sat, and appreciated the cold water drops as they softened the world around me.

Night swept in, it always does.

I lit some candles, their flickering everywhere around my loft, around the flowers, low lit lamps throwing shadows upon my furniture. I try to keep basic in everything except how my brain works. That is a very complicated thing indeed.

The night begins to cool, everything except my cunt and mind which we’re replicas of that Biblical Burning Bush. Except as I said, I did the laser beamer thingy on my cunt, for I still wanted to look pretty.

The wall mirror, and in between this nervous break down I am having, it is the only reminder I have of being a women any longer. Because I’ve become so butch, I can barely look into it any longer. Missy did that to me also.

Two years since I’ve been with a man, (Jimmy Flicks doesn’t count) some jerk off guitar player from a lounge show at The Fremont. He had great abs, no brain, could fuck like Moses. I dumped him after two weeks because he wouldn’t play scrabble with me, and of course Eddie Jett doesn’t count.

I usually lay naked under the sheets, doing this and that. Glenda and Zoe we’re good, but it’s all about brains for me. Some show girls I sometimes pick up are just a way station because my adrenaline was off the charts.

I feel empty, evacuated from my sex feelings; the mental pain almost matches the physical.

Christ, I’m becoming my mother, didn’t realize that. Maybe Missy’s woke me up more than I thought? I don’t like it. Seems though, that has happened.

I can see him over there, onyx bare shoulders, work bib overalls, barefoot, he always works barefoot. He’s Vogued out in old worn denim hugging down those small hips.

His muscles are rippling as he crashes her chisel, sands, grinds, chips away at some piece of white granite. It looks like again he’s turning a slab of stone set on a pedestal into something beautiful again from the memory of his eclectic mind.

I don’t do drugs, could never trust myself to stop.

Last thing I need or anyone needs is me bumping around stoned. You know, an insane girl lying in some alley in her own urine and puke, waiting for the trash guys to sweep her up and carry her back to her loft.

Me mumbling something about a black God’s white teeth, amazing black dick, and a black fist I need, desire, yet know will probably never be rammed in me, anywhere, at anytime. Any orifice will do, fine, thank you very much, end of story.

Thinking always moves time for me, I have problems keeping track of it. So I open my blues, sip at my wine, smoke, tilt my head, peek through the night at his open window.

Gulp, blink, gulp again, no way.

I can hear Sade, perfect, softly thumping from his window.

There he is, standing with his chisel in his hands, bib overalls covering his muscled chest. His bare arms are cut, wide shoulders, apron hiding very little, thank God. He’s covered in night summer sweat, rock dust, ripped body, he is a working man. No gym cosmetic kinda guy I suddenly see that he is staring at me.

GULP.

I can see his black eye’s as the white’s silhouette against them so strident. I’m sure I must be delusional, for I feel that I can almost reach out and circle them, out line them with my white finger.

I gulp again, for their un blinking this time and his eyes are aimed directly at me. ME?

I groan, just great, perfect night, I look like I got hit bye a Singer sewing machine.

But, he is unflinching now, and I can’t, don’t want to break what is happening, or what I am fantasizing is happening.

My breathing begins to swell, my cunt beginning to feel something, like it’s got the stutters again. First Touretts and now the stutters.

Please, not twice in two days. My cunt is screaming out.

Me, me, me now Mr. man.

But that is nonsense, isn’t it?

I giggle, my pallet is dry, so I sip again at my wine, feel all Absinthe struck.

Dreamy with illusions and delusional as the French say, involved with in l’heure Verte, The green Hour.

A state of twisted affairs after drinking the-hallucinate verte elixir.

It was Rimbaud’s, Degas and Manet’s choice of grief too.

A Paris party artist’s drink, except I’m not stoned. I want to glance behind me, see if someone else is there. But, he’s leering at HER, Jane, deconstructed, suddenly insecure, the new pathetic me, for the damn moment.

I, fucking hope.

JANE NOTE: Stop the fuck swearing all the time. Ooops.

Hope I’m not drooling, it feels like my heart is a metronome, faster, faster, and for a few minutes we are stoned dead starrers, gawkers.

I know he’s just fucking with me, why else would he be staring at me like I’m a water, and he was dying of thirst.

I can see his stomach, bellow-bellow from his intense breathing. I am mesmerized with those wide cut shoulders, powerful from lugging 300 lb. blocks of stone up his steps with a dolly. He’s always welding and bending iron vee ingots as his shoulders seem to be broadening more by the moment.

Nobody or body is perfect, but he’s fucking close. Then, and presto-chango I am a female again.

It makes me ill being this fragile.

For the moment that shrieking pain in my beat hell body has disappeared.

Gosh, what is happening to me?

More looking, my own breathing, it’s wild to say the least. I can almost feel something akin to one of those space rays aliens use crossing the expanse between our lofts, drilling me between my eyes.

I blink a couple of times for he still seems completely like I have never seen him before. Of course, I have never had a tryst with him between the sheets. Yet I can see his breathing becoming more intense. But, not as critical as his eyes are, that simply will not leave me alone.

I feel like a fucking mime, unable to do anything but gawk at him.

His thick African lips move, part just a little as he shoots me a small smile as it replaces his hard stare at me. I see sweat covering his midnight body, shaved head, African tribal scars are on his cheeks.

There is nothing sexy about that. More lies as he tilts his head at me, nods behind himself to his loft. He smiles, furrows his eyebrows in a little gesture of.

“Well, what in the fuck are you waiting for?”

Dizzy me, dreamy me, I see a smile, paper white teeth. I melt. He tilts his head behind him again. Like some kina trained chimp I point at myself and mouth. “Who me?”

He smiles nods that I am correct.

I groan and wish the rest of me wasn’t semi paralyzed like my stupid, stupid, stupid brain was.

How fucking old am I anyways?

Behind him he glances at what ever he was chipping rock off on the pedestal which is now covered with shadows and candle light. Looks back at me, smiles, clicks his head, points down stairs.

I point at my fucked up ankle, he gets it. I nod like a dumb donkey, smile and struggle to stand. I nod to him that it would take another 9-11 to keep me from coming, hope he knows girl Morse code.

You know. Jane’s secret code.

ME...WANT YOU...NOW...RIGHT NOW.

He smiles, indicates that he will meet me down stairs. I nod, like in rote, head spinning, turn, hobble across my loft. I throw on some gym socks, my heavy work boots.

Scooting to my stairs, I hop like a rabbit on one foot downstairs lickety split. Clearly manic, I am sure that today is not my birthday.

I don’t move fast, but I’m out the door and there he is.

Towering above me, semi-smiling, serious look in those jet eyes and with out a word, he sweeps me up in his arms, those corded copper wrapped cable arms supporting that is the spinet I am.

With my arms wrapped around his neck, holding on for dear life, he smells like Jasmine, he moves, panther like across the alley through the rain; through his iron security door he goes.

“CLANG.”

Up the stairs we go, my cheek pressed against his shaved head.

Once inside, I gasp, for the place is eclectically stunning, bare, basic and primal like him. There are slabs of iron, rock, welding torches and such everywhere. He’s a fucking artist, no doubt, the stuff is remarkable. He’s remarkable. I’m feeling loopy again, god his scent is savage. He then gently sets me on my boots, holding my non waist in his large, aquiline hands, making sure I don’t flop on my face as he does. Every part of my body aches from all the beating I have gotten over the past few days,

I love unabashedly and secretly love it.

Take inventory, showers, shaved my legs and arm pits, thank god I did that. He just stares at me, his breathing coming heavy now, his pink tongue touching guava lips.

He whispers to me in this ungodly accent. “Are you Ok Jane?

Sure, yes, positive, thanks for the lift, what we gonna do now darling?

I do not say.

So amped, I can barely speak, I whisper back at him through lip trembles. “Yes, I’m just fine, having a great time. Thank you.

I’m an idiot.

He gets a look on his face, like you know. I’m something deliriously desirous to him. While he scrutinizing me, I’m mentally checking the theater program, back to cover. I’m sure he’s got the wrong actress for what ever play he thought he was going to produce for the evening.

Swaying before him, I never felt so fragile, so miniature in body scope. His sculptures power is simply exuding out of him. His babe shoulders are so broad, thin and muscled, I can see every sinew in them, rumbling, twitching in unison along his torso.

Geese, I like the new me, the feminine and fragile me.

Without asking, he leans in, wraps his arms around me, nothing of a girl, draws me in. I feel like I am encased in annealed drying steel. I am wearing my white hoodie and am glad I wore white tights.

It feels to me like my wedding night.

Shelve those thoughts for I am pumping sweat and sex toxins. And, then he kisses me, not once, not short, but a long, long time, no tongue, but with those ungodly beautiful lips pressed against my own.

Glad he’s not politically correct, one of those permission guys, for his hands are now on my tiny rump, which he squeezes. Though his embrace is gentle, it’s strong, and I feel many joints, muscles and bones hurting. What an amazing hurt it is. I’ve always loved pain, a little secret of mine. I think I mention that before.

Then the kisses break and inches away from his face, I see him up close and personal, and I swallow. The look in his eyes is intense, manic, as well. My wet cunt is leaking, which is pressing against his filthy work man overalls and that muscled bod, against my bod. The look in his eyes, well crickey; he looks like a predator black ocelot with one thing on its mind.

ME, I internally gasp.

Tiny tremors, shock waves are squirreling everywhere, mind, blood, veins and cunt.

I think I am orgasmic, or something very close to that. It’s been a long fucking time for this gal, or ever for a matter of fact. You know, incapable of commitment, love, wish for something, it comes true. That never happens to me mostly because until the moment, I have never allowed it too.

Can’t help myself, old habits die hard, smut thoughts, hope what ever the fuck he’s going to do, he doesn’t forget that chisel.

I giggle, sense of humor between the brain hemorrhaging, still intact.

My breathing is static, my cunt doing something, probably drowning by its own accord.

Then, oh my, here comes the melting, as he kisses me gently. I swoon like a southern bell. He lifts me like a white flake of snow, turns and carries me across the loft to where his bed is struck within the wooden planks of the floor.

Gently, he layers me like a shaking dollop of white Jell-O across the black cotton sheets of his bed. I want to be obedient.

Good girls do that, don’t they?

OH REALLY?

Am I good girl, I do not know as I cross my arms on my pre pubescent breasts, and simply stare at him staring at me.

He is a quite tall, muscle on muscle man, so powerful, I like that. Yet, still I hope he can’t hear my cunt murmuring, my breath swelling each time my stomach seemingly presses against my back bone. I am so constructed of nothing but bone, skin and muscle, and what about the cuts, bruises all over my torso. I close my eyes and feel like Frankenstein, sans bolts in the neck.

I just can’t go there.

He is wearing those damn over alls, I like those. Internally, I am weeping secret time and praying, no god, not that mumbo-jumbo so late in the game.

I am hoping that besides a bare chest, well, I hope the rest of him is naked, this carved man seemingly cut out of a slab-of-black obsidian.

It is, so beautiful the way he looks at me.

He’s not an impatient kind a Zeus like guy, as he bends to my work boots. He slowly unties them, and disregarding my wincing in pain, pulls them off of me.

I groan, my gym socks are yesterdays. I am such a thug. Off come my socks.

For a few moments he simply stares at me scared and glass cut feet. He touches my swollen, black, blue ankle, lays his long, black fingers on it. He closes his eyes, opens them, smiles at me. I smile back.

I’m being good. I like that.

My feet are tiny for such a tall girl and I wince in pain, lovely pain from him holding them. He doesn’t seem to mind my tiny winces of hurt.

I love him for that.

There is no pity in his eyes, just passion and, then he stares at my face as I look at his facial tribal scars. I’ve got them too.

He gets it, reaches out, touches’ my bruises. He seems to be purring like a panther. Me too.

Purr, purr, purr, puurr-fect.

He parts his lips, pink tongue wetting them.

Fuck are you kidding me?

Taking my feet in his elegant fingers, he closes his eyes and presses them against his sky high cheekbones. He simply grows more silent, if that is at all possible.

A foot fetish, I can go there.

Whatever he’s doing, internally I don’t want him to stop.

OK.

Clearly manic, I again go through a litany of girl cosmetic stuff I did or did not remember to do.

Atom bombed every blond hair off my body below my eyelashes. Good.

Cleaned the special place, little used, no tattoos, already resisted that urge. Arm pits, legs shaved, no eyebrows really, I am a fare blond. Brushed my teethums earlier, hands covered in bruises, bloody scabs on my knuckles, beat down with Eddie, used deodorant, that’s good.

Every time I look at him, my breath grows heavier, my cunt grows wetter. I hope he can’t feel my body vibrating for I am terrified of the look on his face once he strips me naked.

Are you kidding, who am I? Or who am I for the moment?

These thought erupt in flames and blasts in questions through my bent head.

I’m wondering if he likes them thin, seems so. I haven’t had a decent meal since my girl died.

Maybe the dead kid created a road map of my transformation from a beauty queen and a drama queen, to something a little more real.

Feet time over, he lowers them to the black cotton sheets.

Reaching forward, he kisses me gently on the lips.

He smells like a working man, pungent, beautiful as a drop of sweat from his high forehead falls onto my lips. I moan.

It is salt, the mother element of the earth much like him. I imagine his cum if he were to give me that gift must taste similar. I still am in turmoil at what exactly o and what is going down here, but can’t wait for it to do so.

Slowly, he pulls my white tights down and down and, then strips them off my pallid skin. I wince in pain.

He smiles, as I clinch my eyes shut, embarrassed, for I am nude now, hip bones trying to break out of my skin. My pink cunt is exposed, ribs struck evident as if they were bleached by desert time, just skin cut across them.

My tiny tummy is hitting my backbone as it rises and falls. My mind is going haywire, my body pulsating and sparking as if a fallen power line.

Wincing, I am wondering about the scars on my face, hands, body cuts and welt’s everywhere.

I am vanity sure and pure and what about those purple etches on my body?

I almost weep in shame, for I feel so fucking self centered and vain.

I didn’t ask for this. Or, did I?

I have to check my Astrology chart later, call Madam Bingo and get my cards read. I’m usually a ball breaking Arises, but not now, not here.

I know I’m no physicist, but my eyeballs feel like a neutron beam and my brain like an atom is being spilt, as he, like an orthopedic surgeon slips my Hoodie off.

I wince in pain, feel alive as he smiles as shy me lays back onto the black sheets naked.

I groan from the delight of the pain. Somehow he seems mesmerized in his artists mind as he focuses on my naked child’s body.

It’s as if he is creating images, lines and perimeters of something he might soon create from his gifted imagination. In my girl mind I certainly hope so, as I again think of that chisel. I almost giggle, but don’t.

I have full lips, white teeth, a sharp nose, yet small, wide set blue eyes and they are frozen in fear. I have never, ever felt like this.

You know, just give it up and for the first time let someone else do all the heavy lifting. I like it. Let’s see where this goes, even though I have a good idea where it is going.

The WHY, well we’ll figure out that later.

Black fingers, he moves them from my lips, down my no breasts, along my tummy and, then the journey begins.

His head tilts, his forehead crinkles as he stares at my whiteness, bruises, cuts and the color indigo, magenta cat gut too. There’s that cold blue color again.

His fingers touch my lips, my quivering chin, trail down, dancing past my erect nipples, tummy and my jutting hip bones. They make a landing, you know where.

Oh fuck, what was that fissure in my cunt?

He felt it I’m certain as his eyes lift, their black, like a coal mine fire. He stares at me, smiles and stands, eyes riveted on me.

Oh goody goody, it looks like something remarkable is about to begin.

He seems to hold no doubt in his mind of what he is about to do. I like that, a gentle, take charge, talented, drop dead sex encased beautiful artist. A man in every sense of the word who seems to know what he wants and I just can’t shake the thought.

Why me?

I’m sure his thoughts are filled with something better than my own, or is this a mercy fuck?

Am I being punked?

I can just see it now, TV cameras suddenly appearing and some director yelling. “CUT.”

The MTV set howling at home.

Nope, it’s just real.

Anyhoooo, my body lays there as a line of white powder, one that a breath of wind could scatter. His eyes haven’t left my body yet, and I am positive that I have just seen a tear fall down his cheeks. I want to weep, seeing it. I don’t. Not just yet anyways.

Oh my gosh.

His overalls free fall down his muscled bod, puddle around his bare feet. I gasp and cringe and gasp again seeing him nude, exposed.

OMG, his cock is huge and beautiful.

Black, curved, jagged keloid scars, winding snakes of something horrible that had happened to him, darker than his skin cover his huge chest, ribs and ridged stomach. He sees that I see them and yet he says nothing, just smiles at me, which incinerated my heart with sadness.

Turning, he moves to a small table where a pack of cigarettes are struck on it.

Taking one, he flicks a Zippo, ignites it, inhales and allows the smoke to curl from his sharp nose. I gasp even more, for the same scars are everywhere on his back.

It is as if he were lashed as the bigots and racists had done to the Africans a century ago along the great slave plantations of N. Carolina, Georgia and old Mississippi.

He just stands there looking at me through a plume of smoke.

We are communicating, brazen eyes, minds locked on minds and, then a clip of a smile breaks his lips. He knows and I know we are similar, head liners in some galactic freak show.

That we are odd periodic human beings and, then I can not help my self, I glance below his waist at his cock again.

Are you fucking kidding me?

I swallow my breath back past my quivering lips. It is black, huge mind you. I am not complaining.

I can see the veins bulging along it and think of Subway and those foot long thingys they sell there, tee-hee. I stare as it melds into his long legs, flat tummy above it.

It is all quite gorgeous, thank you.

He sees that I see the liquid spilling down my inner thighs. I gulp again. He holds no shame as he moves to the side of the bed and sits. His sculptor callused hand are lying on my swelling tummy, me staring at his growing dick like it’s an oxygen tank and I am deprived of air.

With out asking, he tilts the smoke to my lips, which I accept.

Having seen far too many French Bardot, Denuve and Belmondo flicks, where they smoke while they eat, fuck, swim I am right there. I am such a hopeless romantic and I am hoping that this film never ends.

I inhale and find the feeling of the haze lovely in my mouth, my lungs. He smokes more, looks at the tip of the burning ember, inhales once more. I take a drag too. He smiles and flicks the cigarette across the loft, not caring where it comes to rest. I can barely control my teeth from chattering. I am so stoned crazy excited, wowed by everything that he is.

I peek at his dick, he notices, smiles. I can’t help myself. I blush, he notices, take’s my hand, presses my thin white fingers around his cock.

COME ON, REALLY?

My vagina is drenched, he smiles. Christ I have to blink for the heat from his dick is savage, hard and so sexual. I can barely get my fist around it or my mind for that matter. I want it between my lips and, then he moans. He closes his eyes, opens them and stares at me, which crushes me to whispers.

“ooooooooh.”

Never have I seen anything so sexual, so erotic and so beautiful. He leans over to a small end table, opens a drawer and grabs a little jar of Japanese aloe. I saw it written there right on the label; won’t need it though, well maybe. He smiles at me. I blush. My eyes go rigid as he smiles and graces my lips with his cock.

Huuum. Maybe that aloe isn’t that bad of an idea after all?

He presses his dick harder against my wet fingers. I can barely breathe, for I am stoned with excitement. I am wondering how that dick will break apart my aching body and my small torso. Normally, no probIema, but I am aching big time at the moment.

I am saying my prayers and hoping that maybe he will vaporize my usual recent denial attitude from its pinions.

Fuck, I don’t care, for once he does what ever he is going to do with me, once he decides to do it, let’s begin, I almost verbally beg.

Unable to prevent my self from doing it, one hand holding on for dear life to his cock, I reach up, trail my finger along his chest scars. He winces, not from pain, but from some distant memory he remembers in his artistic past.

Moments move, it is warm in his loft. We are warm, naked and nude as the rain pounds his skylights and lightning cracks in the sky.

His eyes open. Leaning in, he kisses me, which I accept, want and need.

He is a savage, I mean really. He is.

Tee hee.

I’m more of a savage than he, as I kiss his cock, swoon and push my lips, then my mouth around it.

UUUM, WOW, OMG.

It tastes like honey and burnt copper. He moans something in Swahili. Just kidding as he warps his hands around the back of my noggin. He guides his cock towards my mouth, which being no dummy, is wide open. I mean really wide open.

Up and down, back and up, around and around I go.

Never, REALLY, have I tasted or felt anything so stoned cold wonderful.

Un-able to prevent myself, I am me after all, and forgetting all those good manners things I read in all of those books, I then swallow his cock whole. Balls pressed against my small chin; all the way down my throat it goes.

Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle. Thank God I’ve had my tonsils out.

Waiting for him to kick me out because I am a banal heathen tramp, he does not.

Thank God, as he moans as PARUMP, PARUMP his cock keeps sluicing out of my throat, ending up at my lips. And, then like a Welsh coal miner, down, down, down he goes again.

I am secretly glad he’s not mad at me and apparently likes the slut that I am.

It’s hard to keep track of time when you’re insane. A lot of time passed as I could feel his cock expanding, filling with blood.

Oh goody, goody, goody. I murmured to myself.

But he knew it was time, and I guess he didn’t want to cum.

Are there really such gentlemen like that? I guess so?

So, he pulled out.

I can’t ever remember that happening before.

You know. I promise I won’t come in your mouth thing guys say.

And then some dick weed spills the entire load in your cunt or yap or on your tits and you’re the gal that has to clean the entire ball of crap up later.

Anyhooo, he stood back, smiled, didn’t seem to mind the drool falling down my chin. I know I didn’t. The fact that I was such a slut, which apparently he didn’t mind either was nice too.

Gosh, I really got lucky this time and maybe I will start praying to that gold Latina cross I I’m wearing right now.

NEVER.

Soooo moving right along, he wrapped his arms around my back, lifts me to a sitting position. Wincing in pain, he tilted his head at me.

“Please, take no notice to my pain Ike. It’s a part of me.”

WHEW.

He understands, that is who I am.

I place one arm around his neck, the other clutching his dick, for dear life. He smiles and God there are those white teeth again. Like a weigh a gram of salt, he effortlessly begins to lift me into the air.

Being insanely thin has its advantages.

I allow my legs to dangle as I jilt as spasms of pain shoot through my hips, muscles, limbs. He is sitting, back against the iron rungs of the bed stead, legs strung out on the sheets. He lifts me like I am nothing. I feel like I am constructed of ribbons, light and of air currents. His power is undeniable.

I wince, moan in hurt, pleasure as he guides me onto his lap, his fingers stretching my formless legs, tiny nothing butt around his waist. My hands are holding that beautiful skull of his, smelling his breath; that breathe.

Floor # 3 please. I almost giggle.

He lowers me onto his cock, filling me, stretching me, engorging me, pain everywhere.

I throw my blonde back, shudder and moan. My fingers wrap harder around his powerful neck, my head jerks back further. I shake my head back and forth violently like some crazed dog bitch trying to rid water from its fur.

I moan as trembles, tiny orgasms strike my dormant cunt from and from so many different traumas hitting my body at the moment.

Fuck, what is happening to me? I feel like I am being split apart, mended back together at the same time.

I swoon, groan and tremble all over as he pulls me into his scars, his chest against breasts, what is left of them before I became emaciated.

My face is close to his sculptors face. He does not move, just kissing, breathing pungent flowers on my egret, arched neck with those lips, those amazing lips. I feel the tip of his cock pressing against the inner ending of my now so beautiful tummy.

Of course I can barely move. I feel as if a paper marionette that has had its strings cut.

No power in my legs, yet he controls me so easily, vice grips cinched to butt and my boy hips. Controlled, I love it as he slowly allows me to move, grind the best I can.

I am a white string wrapped around a black gift. His hands, long iron fingers, powerful lift my butt.

Up and down, ascent, decent, up, down and all around.

Each time a strike of pain rips through my body. I am a power provocateur, but not now, not here. I am the girl again, something I lost many years ago.

Minutes pass, maybe hours, as I throw my head back, rant, scream as I climax over and over.

Ripping my hands into his head, I center his face, gawk at him, inhale deep, whip my blond head back and forth drops of sweat glistening in the candle light.

Leering at him, I feel like a wild jackal with a taste of the kill in my throat.

I stare into his crazed yet controlled eyes, crush my lips to his, sharing saliva, tongues, avoiding the tears spilling down both of our faces. He’s not scared of me, WHEW. That mostly never happens with a man after they get to know me.

My entire body feels as if it has ruptured, steel pins grinding against stainless steel rods and screws and I-Beams.

He lifts me high, his knob swooshing out of my cunt, his hands supporting me under my arms. My legs and feet are limp as he flips me like a pancake onto my tummy. So many things are twisting in my body. I feel my pleasure and pain melding into orgasms.

I semi-wail as I feel some hidden, late arriving climax again hit me hard.

That is an aftershock as my body almost vibrates out of control. His powerful hands wrap around my heaving tummy steady me as he lifts me. I am now semi suspended on my fists and knees as the top of my feet grace the sheets.

I have never felt so marvelously helpless, controlled, protected, soooo turned on.

I feel his breath on my neck, his teeth gently layered their as he enters my vagina from the back, tip first. Slow, how it even fits so far is a miracle to me.

Maybe I will become a Catholic, they believe in that kinda hocus pocus, miracle stuff?

He is patient, waits for me to pretend denial. Which I do not, for I am mumbling nonsense, some gurgle through chattering teeth, bitten lips, my fingernails tearing at the sheets, my teeth too chewing at them.

I want it, all of it, every inch of it, and this he gets it. Did he ever.

So, through the early morning he proceeded to radically fuck the Radon out of my head.

I mean for a long, long time he fucked me. It was hard to keep track of time when your head has become a human slinky, banging against the bed rails. You know, while some lover hammers you’re cunt like he actually cares about you instead of being a singular receptacle for his semen.

After multiple orgasms, I came back, both of us drenched in sweat. Moving right along, I heard weeping gushes of air and cries as they exploded out from my drooling lips as he entered me to the hilt.

“Ooooooh’s and Aaaaaahs.” Screamed out of my mouth during most of it.

I think I even reverted back to Italian a couple of times. Will ask him about that later.

Because I am insatiable and know a good thing when I have it, I never complained as he kept pushing, deep, deeper still.

Fuck was that even possible? Apparently it was.

Completely out of mind, I did my best as I lunged back, best I could as my lying mouth kept screaming no and my cunt was creaming, yes, telling him that he is right on track, and please do not stop.

He did not.

My body bucks, spasms, climaxes, again. I can barely breathe and feel completely mad.

I blush, crashing pain raining in every joint, bone and sinew too, in my cunt as well.

I almost pass out from the white lightening sparks shooting through my temples.

Completely encased by hands, cock and what ever the fuck is going on in his mind, I go rigid. My spine is bent, tummy bellowing, face pressed against my collar bones, screaming, gushing and climaxing over and over again.

How many times this time, I do not know.

How many toothpicks does it take to make the Eiffel Tower? That was the kind of fuzzy math sizzling through my head.

He is rough and a savage, a tender man. Just when I think that I can take no more, but not really, no complaints from this doll he continues, all the time asking me in my ear if I am OK.

Whoever rips up a winning Lotto ticket once won? Not this Mensa member.

“Ooooooooh....Yeeeeees....Pleeeeeas...Do anything you want to meeee. Don’t stop....Ooooooh.”

I think he was waiting for me to cry uncle.

Not me by golly.

Between breaths of life, a drink of water, thank you Ike I then feel his dick, the ridges, its girth, a magic wand of pleasure when wielded by a tender man of little words wooosh out of me.

I am so tiny I felt every artery, vein, every one of them inside me expanding making me smile, remembering my wish for a pneumatic air hammer attack earlier. Well wishes at times do come true.

Wishes, prayers are funny things, meaning, well you know I am praying he has not forgotten my anus.

Bingo and right on cue, I feel his cock dancing around my ass hole.

“OK.” He asks.

With beads of sweat flying off of my blonde, I stutter. “Ooooh, yes...Pleeeease.”

Something is dripping down my thighs, me, not him. He presses the tip of the penis along that amazing rubber ring, waits for me to protest. None from me bye golly, as he enters me.

Plop, tip in now, no protest and, then all the way in he slides it, stretching my insides so wonderfully, painfully I almost break out singing in Latin as the pain granulates my insides into tiny liquid droplets of orgasmic cum.

He found the magic button, oh yes he did.

He takes his fists, doesn’t ask and plunges it inside my vagina. I scream as my body loses control, vibrates wildly. I whip my head up, down. I am impaled from everywhere, dick in my ass, his fist inside of me, me chewing a hole in his pillow.

I will go to Wal-Mart and buy him a new pillow case tomorrow.

My mind all most blacks out, sparks pain and pleasure cracking in my brain. I climax over and over and, then wail again.

Time passes, hours I guess, back to earth, still my knees have hardly touched the black sheets from the depth of his fist, and still he drives harder. My breath between massive gulps goes yip, yip, yip like a terrier bitch in heat. And, then I feel his breathing intensifying.

Then his entire body slams hard against me, driving his dick entirely inside of me. Screaming, I rake my head back and forth, white fists clawing at the black sheets. I scream again as we both climaxes together as he rips his fist out of my cunt.

Not a single ounce of pain now, there’s those pesky endorphins again. He has rewired my joints, plumbing and organs within orgasms as I feel hot his semen fill my ass, sending me into a tizzy as he lays me on the bed.

He softly lay’s on top of me, his dick, far, far still inside my ass, his sweat mingling with my own. Did I mention it is all warm and cozy in his loft, just like my ass feel’s. It is so hot that the inside of it feels as if someone has just ladled molten honey into it.

A moment passes, as does my breath. My heart begins to calm as he ever so gently slides to the side of the bed. He allows his cock to drain out of my ass and silent, very silent, he spoons me, one arm across my pink belly. His aquiline sharp jaw is nestled into the cleft of my neck, his breathing slowing.

He smells like sex, sweat, love, an animal like, like me. He is so beautiful and tender. I feel tears welling as I hold his head in my hands. I feel his warm tears mixing along my neck, trailing down, pooling near my collar bones.

Yet still, he is a quiet man and my body simply said, is glowing. There is a most lovely pain free hum generating off of it. His eyes open, and he whispers to me in that accent of his.

“Jane, you are most beautiful women I ever seen, know.

Moi. Me? I do not whisper.

I am stunned, blush, I am tongue tied for the first time in my smart mouthed life.

He closes his eyes and drifts to sleep. I am holding his magnificent skull along my fingers, not happy per-say for that would be something shallow within a cataclysmic moment in time.

I cannot sleep of course as the morning moves slow towards dawn. In the middle of the morning hours I glance to my left and see something and it is cast in shadows and moon beams from the full moon. The storm has stopped as I quietly move his head to the pillow.

Swinging my legs from the bed, bare feet tap dancing on the wooden planks, I wince in pain. I want to scream, for the pain has returned. But, I don’t, gritting my teeth through it all. I struggle to my footsies.

WOW.

Multiple days of being whacked around, one way or the other, well, it’s been a hoot, but I have double vision. It clears, and I can’t take my eye’s from what I think is silhouetted of some piece of granite he had been slaving over with his great chisel.

Thinking of the chisel makes me giggle. I swallow them.

I count down from three, and would really rather do the-snuggle thing with him. But, I’m a feline. You know, curiosity and I must see what is over there.

Three, two, one.

I’m moving and so far I haven’t fallen on my mug. Good.

The room spins, the agony raking my lower extremities is so intense I almost loose consciousness. He has morphined me with sex, I guess love too.

I think of Gumbo and Stella and I am positive I fed them; strange thoughts, those of love. And now the sex anesthetic has run away, and I almost vomit my body pain is so intense. It is erotically so wonderful I pray that it will never leave my body

It passes, partially, it’ always does. So, ankle hurting limp across the loft.

Moving to an angle I gasp as my eyes bolt open. I am waiting for them to acclimate to the moon light and shadows and, then they focus. I gasp again and close them, open them and gawk at what is before me.

On the pedestal in white marble is a bust of me. It is elegant, a master piece of my face, eyes, soul, my soul and its looks as if I were recreated right there before me. It is white. I am so white, my head on his pedestal, my face created from his memory.

It is as if my heart is in his body, his cock inside of me warming me still, his amazing warm lips still kissing me. He is a genius and, I feel tears beginning, saline, bountiful and beautiful spilling down my cheeks.

I begin to weep, simply struck with awe at his talent and his pain of having such a savant talent and the vision to create me from memory.

I begin to shake. I am so over come by all of this. I cannot support my self any longer and begin to tumble. Then, his brutal fingers wrap around my waist, and he lifts me so easily. He wraps his arms around my tummy, presses his body against mine, pressing his lips against my ears. I feel his breath on my neck.

Reaching back, I wrap my finger along the back of his skull. I peek at him as he hugs me tighter, supporting me, dispelling my grief, me knowing that in those arms no harm could ever besiege me and, then he whispers in that African/British accent.

“I have loved you from moment that I first see you. If there is beauty more than you, I no have seen it. Come beauty, we talk more about all after we sleep. In morning we will eat. Come now, come to bed with me.”

OH MY GOD, gosh, gee, golly. Love at first sight. LOVE. Huh? That’s just great. Me beautiful? No, no, no, yes, yes, yes, this is not me. Or is it?

OMG, FUCK.

What if he wants me to make breakfast for him later?

Guess I could borrow some eggs, some toast from Chang and maybe one of those Wisk things too.

STOP. Get it together.

I’m exhausted.

Go with it. Figure out the damage later. Whew. Good Idea amongst a host of bad ones.

I am without words, for there are none. I am thunder struck, frail now.

I feel as perhaps, as a woman might be at times when feeling safe with a man. When in a giant’s arms, a man of no ego, rift with genius and humility.

He lifts me in his arms, and my useless legs dangle. My blubbering face is caught within the cleft of his neck. My Lillie’s are wrapped around his broad shoulders. Moving me back to the sheets, he lays me down so gently. I feel no pain. He tucks a single black sheet under my quivering chin, leans down and kisses me. Quietly he moves along side of me, and lays a single hand along my breasts.

In moments he is asleep.

Of course I am satiated, tired, magnificent, and so I close my eyes, resting in his arms.

I feel his breathing, it is melodic, his power calms me and sleep comes and as I slept there were no memories of pain, nor nightmares of Missy and I did not dream.

Whilst I dreamed those words kept willowing through my brain. They were:

What in the fuck am I going to do now?

XXX

The beginnings of summer have returned and it is not yet a hundred zillion degrees in Las Vegas. It is maybe 85, soft breezes as a month has passed, and the Sun is yellow.

I am sitting at my window seat bare foot, in my loft, smiling at the black man across the way, slashing his heart, mind against a massive slab of black marble.

It is a commission he has received from a London gallery. It will be placed along a park near The Wharfs. It is where ships come and go. Great ships have always been apart of London’s soul, as he is of me now.

Well, so far, so good. We’re kinda inseparable, best friends, artists in collusion of a real life, a conspiracy of sex, respect, dignity and of course love. Not that kind of stifling love.

No cheap, meaningless soap opera love, a diamond is forever crap.

But, more like real love.

Does that even exist?

You know, two equals, no possessiveness, no jealousy, both still independent contractors doing their own thing.

We decided to keep a space between us so we could do our things uninhibited in our own ways.

We are unencumbered by any chains of unreality, such as living together, or finding crippling marriage, or the other societal bull shit that never worked.

So, when we join sometimes at night, we are always glad to see one another, never taking for granted our love for one another. Sometimes, mostly from our own passions of our work we sleep alone.

Other times when I wake, he is standing there, breakfast and coffee waiting for me and always that smile along with kisses for me.

I could ask for nothing more.

Watching him create, so turns me on, the great smiles, waves, doesn’t hurt that scenario a bit.

Me, of course, well I’m me again, working through the usual issues, but different this time.

I’m a little more common sense now, feeling nice, still tough, yet, well we die with out the capability to change, which I did, in a big way.

Nothing wrong caring about someone, nothing wrong with that at all.

I even think Gumbo and Stella are pregnant. Looks like little orange kids soon. Gosh, I’m going to be a grandmother, isn’t that rich? That’s kinda sweet though.

This is my life now, it may change I cannot think of having anything more for the moment than what he has given me and what I have given him.

It’s a beautiful day as I watch him turn and wipe dirt and sweat from his face.

He grins and waves, shaking his head back and forth for he has told me that every time he sees me sitting here, watching him, he is simply filled with joy and pride that I chose him to love.

What a liar he is. I love him for that, well a lot, as much as I can for the moment as summer has returned to my life, as my heart has.

I feel warm, marvelous and complete. What a lucky girl I am, this I know.

Oh yeah, he never asked me to make breakfast.

Turns out the black god can cook like fucking Martha Stewart, go figure.

See ya later. Jane, Vegas PI, checking out, for now.

XXX

“Booo hoooo, boooohooo hooo.” Just kidding, “SHUUUUT UUUUUP.”

Hidy, Jane, been feeling pretty good lately, lots a reasons for that scenario.

Sitting here on my window stoop, again, big window doors slotted open above my alley, smoking a smoke, sipping caffeine, feeling summer coming. You know, like that purgatory haunt, that place those bent catholic priests always told the kids they were going. Their secret hide out for weenie whacking’ after the pedophiles watched that Paris Hilton porn tape for the bizillinth time.

I’m a little sad, but not really. No Adele coming from Ike’s loft lately. The place is locked down solid.

You know, like Mother Teresa’s womb.

Ike’s off to London, the trendy wharfs, to off his statue, cool thing, gorgeous half women/dolphin holding a world globe on her head, stunning that.

He’s then off to West Africa to see his kid brother, another brilliant wedge of white teeth, black skin, and big brain. I helped him crate the thing up. We used a lot of bubble wrap, love that stuff. I can sit and pop I’m for hours, don’t know why.

Kid wants to be a doctor. Ghana. Well not likely.

He’s a college grad though. Ike kicked in the dough for that. I told him I got trunks of cash.

Me money is his money. I’d like to help.

I got a smasheroo kiss for that, back to the brother.

Even with the diploma, the best he could hope for was maybe a cabin boy on one of those pirate ships. You know, black guys whipping around the Gulf of Aden, Ak-47’s, holding up shrimp boats, super tankers, submarines and such for ransom.

Real entrepreneurs, so they can cop a couple million bucks from the super corporations that are raping the world, so once and for all they can get out of fucking Somalia, or her cousins, once and for all.

Things been going swell with Ike, for the last month. I guess he’s my boy friend’s, me still the girl, he being the fella.

I found some feminine traits I had lost. But, it’s just role playing, me being still a hard doll and becoming more like me every day. Not in his arms though, it’s been a hoot.

The sex is nuclear and we throw the word love around, a bit, you know, cum, sweat, gritted teeth, torrid and banshee insane sex.

A gal will say anything when she is like that. But, we know it’s a kinda love. The only kind two super independent, genius savages can have.

That’s all good with us, no owner ship and lots of down time from each other.

Absence really does make the heart grow fonder and I do miss him.

He’s pretty much sealed the guy thing for me, always knew that was coming. That still doesn’t keep me from dreaming about girls. I am, after who I am.

Anyhooo, lots has happened in the last month, been real busy, could start at Z, but never could do the alphabet thingy backwards. So I will start with A.

It took some time for Gumbo and Stella to name their kid fish. I waited for them to do that, that didn’t happen. They both just keep staring at me with those little bubble eyes.

So I monikered her up as Blanch, out a one of my fav T. Williams books.

I put the open book against a lamp, open so they could read it if they wanted to.

Seems they are. I love those little guys, really I do. I’m hoping more little Gumbo’s are on the way.

I got my new Smith & Wesson catalogue in the mail. That’s it right there next to my bare feet on the ledge. Sent me a calendar too, big sucker, put it up in my PI office. It had this babilicious doll on it, g-string, store bought tits, Dow Chemical made I’m, lots a blond bottle hair, hard body.

She had these two cartridge bandoliers, 9 MM caliber slugs in it, I think. They we’re covering her silicone tits.

She was holding a 50 caliber semi automatic near her collagen lips, a coded message there for the guys, you know.

Buy this gun and this girl will suck your cock.

It’s the most powerful hand gun in the world. I might get one, though the redoubt could break my wrist. I gotta ask my buddy at the gun range about that.

I giggle again, because my toes are sneaking out of my most fav faded Levis. I broke my promise, didn’t get rid of them, even though they were blue, just too comfy. I’m sure Missy would understand.

They got ripped up knees, gained two pounds, now 120, so their not falling off my stick hips. That’s good. I feel warm and cozy in my black hoodie. No more virgin white while my boy friend is away. I’m saving that for him.

Been riding my Japanese mountain bike to Gold’s gym again, pumping iron, watching these young tricked out show girls, boys too running on treadmills, doing Pilates, a zillion crunches, lifting weights. Their trying to keep the grim reaper of age from killing them with his sickle which of course is always hard.

He always gets YA in the end.

Last time I was there, I was forced to take care of a little bidness. You know for Sandy at the reception desk, a real looker, who I totally dig. She digs me too and there’s that, vanity again.

Eeeks, I love it, why not.

The manager Todd there, a pal too, loves my mojo. Geese, I can’t help it if everybody loves my vibe. I guess I’m just loveable, can’t help it.

Oh Pleeease, Jane.

Todd’s a sweet stud, and runs a tight ship at the gym. He’s put these signs up everywhere that say: “Please don’t drop yer weights.”

That seemed reasonable to me. But there always has to be this GUY. You know the type you always see strutting around the gym like a cock-a-doddle-doo rooster.

There always about 5ft 5, or 6, pumped up on steroids to about 185 LBS. There always decked out in the latest gym togs ya get over there at the Sports Authority. Great place. I got my tennies and ammunition for my guns there.

There always lifting big, black iron and such, grunting, screaming out shit and slamming down the barbells on the black rubber mats. Huge thuds, gym rattles and, then they bang their chests, pose in the mirror.

What there looking at, but don’t know, is a real asshole.

I saw Todd talk him up and Sandy too. He blew them off, did a fuck you whatever thing, went back and did it again.

I want to go over, kick him in the nuts, grab him bye the ear, slap him to the mat and get in his face.

Say something’ like:

Fucking wake up, read the signs, try to be a decent fucking human being for the first time in yer puke life.

But I don’t, because I respect Todd and Sandy.

Any ways, chit chatted up Sandy last time about this rude dude.

She said the dead beat was late on his rent. I wish they could do something about it, but lawyers and such. Everybody litigates for anything these days. Said I got it and maybe I could help.

She smiled, gave me the secret decoder hand shake. We were on the same page.

So I lit up my Apple machine, Photo Shopped up a picture of the gym and made this bogus card stock. I then wrote him this note.

“Listen you fucking ego maniacal little dwarf, (Nothing against dwarfs, there cool people too) get off the juice, grow your tiny dick back, stop dropping the weights. WAKE THE FUCK UP and get a life, or were going to bury ya under a cactus in the desert.”

I signed it the management.

It was obviously bogus. So I covered my buds ass at the gym and well, me being real sneaky at times, slid it through the crack of his locker. I then went and saddled a stationary bicycle, peddled a little and just waited.

“KABOOOOM.”

The human plant went off, went insane and came out of the locker wearing a white towel, dripping water, screaming at Todd and Sandy. He threatened to kill them, everybody else in the gym, just as two black Bulls from N. Vegas Vice walked in the door.

I gave Lou a shout out from my cell earlier, and he dug my plan. He wrangled up a couple of my pals, and there they were then.

So on cue, while I was peddling away, two huge black cops saw what was going down. They tried to calm the fuck wad. He called them Pigs and might a whispered the no no word Nigger and you know, he’s got rights and such.

Well, the cops kinda smiled and, then chopped him into kindling wood, real hard like. Cops don’t like being called Pigs or the N word. I don’t blame them.

They then levitated him, each one on each arm as his towel fell off, and there were lots of giggles, for I was right. The guy’s dick looked like a licorice stick. The juice does that to a punk.

They called a blue and white and threw him behind the cage. They cuffed him, got some hosannas from Sandy and Todd and went in the gym to slaps on the back. They lifted iron, seemed happy about everything for once again they had set the rebalance back to life.

I went over and thanked them, snuck a C-note in their grateful palms.

“We love ya, Janie. You’re all of that.” They said.

I blushed of course and got tons of gratitude from Sandy and Todd.

I said. “Awe that ain’t nothing, glad I could help.”

Two days later Sandy told me the puke had about a million warrants out for his arrest.

I guess she and Todd got a gold star on their work sheets. That made me glow. I like it when good things happen to good people.

Anyhoooo, I’ve been thinking a lot about life lately. You know, what I do, why I do it? Missy did that for me.

I try to be a good person and don’t run red lights or litter and I have these-blue-trash recycle containers in my loft. I put cans, plastic bottles in some and card board in others.

I try to help the poor, which reminds me of something. I have to take the fifteen grand Tina Barks bounty over there to the homeless shelter, run by this stud, real good lookin’ priest named Father Bob. He’s a Jake guy, like him a lot.

Ditto, he likes me too. I feel good about that.

I think I mentioned, I’m trying to be a good girl, a better girl and I never lie. Well almost never.

You know, sometimes little white fleas are OK. Like when Chang’s wife Sehi-Shei down there at the laundry asked me for an update on her new hair doo, that looks like she’s got a coven of crazed bats nesting in it. I smile, say something like.

Gee Sehi-Shei (that’s Mandarin for totally fucking insane) ya look great, lost ten years, gotta give me your hair dressers name.

That makes her feel pretty good; me too.

There is nothing wrong with a little white lie from time to time. Nothing wrong with that at all.

But what’s really got me wired, is the really ghastly men, women I take down, me being the fixer of such things and all, and why I do it.

I finally came to the decision, if I don’t, who in the fuck will. Figured it’s a Kafkaesque world now.

It’s spooky, eerie, lots of evil, up means down, vice a versa.

Orwell figured most of it out and everything is just too fucking politically correct and makes no common sense at all.

Some sick, perverted old degenerate, living in an Air Stream out side of Tulsa, eating beans out of a can, steals some sweet little kid. He terrorizes her, brutalizes her, rapes her and buries her in the back yard. He puts her to bed alive in a home made coffin next to his double wide. He fucks up because he’s run out of crystal meth.

The cops get I’m and he spills the beans, than fucking what?

The system swoops down, they lawyer him up, get a bunch of psych heads to coddle him. They show I’m some ink blots, have him touch his nose with his finger and ask him if his dog died when he was a kid. Holding his fucking hand, the DA lets him cop an insanity plea bargain.

Then, the puke goes to a fed lockup. He gets three squats and a cot, hangs with other vermin, lifts weights, plays B-ball, watches Oprah, and has never been happier in his life.

But that don’t fix it, for who’s talking for the kid? Who’s holding the kids hand, like I did with Missy’s?

What about the parents? They don’t get an all included paid vacay at the joint. They get a life of pain, tears, grief and nightmares. Just ask John Walsh about that.

That’s why I took Eddie Jett down, like I did. Yeah, it was violent, even gruesome. I use that word, because this doll I know, real bright light named Fawn, met her at some party one night, turned me on to that word when I was pissed off about all those little girls wearing vest bombs over their in Iraq.

You know, in a coma, pushed and prodded by the elders, and, then blowing them-selves up wearing a Centex Jalapa. This Fawn, she didn’t quite get it and I was ranting, and she said to me. “Chill Jane, it’s a party, don’t be so gruesome.”

I of course went off because I figured someone should stand up for the kid’s. Tell their story of pain, for what’s more gruesome than some sweet little girl vaporizing herself for no reason at all with a C-4 night gown strapped to her body. That’s another story, never a pretty story, to be told later.

I chide myself for going off, again, back to why I do what I do.

Yeah, I like it. I like fisticuffs, testing myself, mano a mano stuff, fucking dangerous stuff. I do this thing because someone has to standup, like I did against Bobby O’Brien and Eddie Jett. Someone has to say, enough is enough.

Yeah, its ultra violent, ugly, messy at times, but I don’t do it because I’m a sadist. I do it because if I don’t, who will?

There, ENOUGH SAID, there’s still more to report.

Anyhooo, after Eddie Jett, I was hurting, big time and, then I was kickin’ it with Ike.

Hey I like that.

It could be a rap song, you know.

“Kickin it with Ike, in ma crib, he’s my nigger, he’s my nigger, he’s my nigger.” (Writers note: I can delete this, but clearly Jane is not racist, since she loves a black guy.)

Hey relax, I’m just quoting those radical dudes, NWA (Nigger’s with an Attitude) got all their CD’s. Will role with their sound later, can’t wait.

Back too ‘W’ in the alphabet.

So, I was done with violence, though I still had to go visitin’ the other doc. You know the guy who made an omelet out of my girl’s frontal lobes. I wanted none of it, just because I was exhausted, enjoying the mud wrestling with my black godly stud guy. But time heals all wounds, or most of them I suppose.

After a few days, me having my womb rearranged by my new boy friend, BIG MOAN, I turned out Ginger and Bobby O’Brien over to ‘Lou’ Garcia.

Well, the Lieutenant was grateful for that.

He took some Metro Bulls, busted them bold. He got Bobby out of the hospital, dragged him and Ginger to the White Room over there at the precinct. They blasted a bright light in their faces, yelled at them, a lot.

They got Ginger to roll over on Bobby and got the DA down there. He slapped a Murder One on their deranged faces and that worked out pretty good.

Lou got another merit badge, an upgrade to head guy of his own division. Looks like Captain next.

Lou really owed me, but we never keep abacus’s on that kinda stuff.

We’re family, cops and me. I don’t ever know when I will need a favor from Lou. He sent me a thank you note too for the teddy bear for the kid. That’s the kinda guy Lou is.

I didn’t take long for me to sober up, had that itch, you know the kind.

An itch you can’t get rid of, even if you got one of those Thailand souvenirs thingy’s at the Bangkok airport. You know. It’s got this little hand on a bamboo stick that says.

Thanks for fuckin’ our twelve year old girls, come back real soon.

I finally had to rent Earl again, like a U-Haul from King. He wouldn’t take a Drachma. Kings a class act, more about him in a bit.

Earl was all grins for me, remembering how I had planted the ten Gee’s in his blood soaked apron and frankly, I was glad to role with him again.

Doc #2, some pervery named Phillips was a real degenerate, obviously, a real piece of work, all smoke and fractured mirrors.

He lived in this mansion over near The Flamingo, off the Strip. He was a real pillar of society. You know, selling coke, oxycontin, steroids to the rich fucks of Vegas.

He was a real semi celebrity, a card carrying, god fearing member of The Christian Right. Those guys are so fucked up, I won’t go there. I’ve got a lot of stuff to do, but you can put the pieces of that fucked up puzzle together by yourself.

Anyhoooo, I didn’t want to kill him, but I had to stay frosty and I didn’t want him to to do the scoota-roo on some cruise ship to Barbados.

So, Earls got this nifty 36 inch Louisville Slugger black baseball bat; a Mickey Mantle I think.

One night we cruised over there in his black SUV, tinted windows and such, havin’ a good time, all ghetto and such.

We we’re groovin’ be boppin’ singin’, gettin’ it up with some Biggie Smalls rap, Mr. Notorious himself,

RIP.

“Neva trust nobody: your moms’ll set that ass up, properly gassed up-Hoodie to mask up, shit, for that fast buck: she be lyin’ in the bushes to light that ass up.”

Cool stuff and then we found his fancy-dancy neighbor hood he was slimed in.

The street looked like a line of French whore houses, rich, opulent, earth and an acre here and there. It had walled gates and the usual bull shit of wealth.

It had security cameras, hide and seek, you know, peek-a-booing out of the venetian blinds before you get in the Bentley.

Security stuff, making sure some dark skinned Mexican isn’t waitin’ fer ya with a piece a pipe, to high jack yer stuff. Like the baubles that you ripped off from the beautiful and savage Native American people a century ago.

Geesh Jane, lighten the fuck up, OK.

He had this black iron barred jail ringing the outhouse he lived in about ten feet tall. It was no problema for me amigo Earl and moi.

We figured the gate was hard wired, an alarm and such, no problem.

So, holding a bouquet of red, blue and yellow helium balloons, you know that kind that makes yer voice sound like Wayne Newton’s, we began to slink around.

I was wearing my black sex leather hip hugger’s. Chang got all the blood off f them, a skin tight red sleeveless body shirt, showin’ off the muscles in my arms again. I’m hopeless, I know, I’m hopeless.

So, I scampered up on Earls air craft carrier shoulders, hopped the fence, landed on my steel toed boots. I smiled as Earl, like a fucking Black Panther furrowed over the wall, landing right next to me with huge smile on his lips.

Of course I had a plan, having no dummy in me. Me, knowing that men think with their dick’s first and, me being so cute, adorable and so irresistible and such, we moved through the park like setting, towards the front door of the fucking palace.

When we got near the front door, and pretty much knowing that there were CCTV cameras somewhere, we did some whispering. Earl got lucky, found a shrub big enough to hide behind, about six feet from the door.

And me, well I stripped off my top, and now topless, I took a red ribbon from my pocketsess.

Again, with the The Lord of the Rings thoughts.

Tying it around my no tits, I held the balloons up, real high like. I walked to the front door, playing ultimate bimbo to the hilt.

I heard country music coming from the house, won’t go there. I hit that little button, and smiled real slutty like. No problema. I am a slut.

Smiling at Earl, I heard the little bell go ding a ling, ding a ling ding.

Now what could go wrong, I’m me, cherub looking, in a sexed up way, a gorgeous twist, all skinny, semi naked and all? I figured if I’m not on the camera, then he’s gonna be looking through the peep hole, seeing a knock out blondie holding party balloons, a red ribbon tied around her.

He will probably figure it’s a present from one of his degenerate, show biz buddies. I also figured, he ain’t gonna question how I got here, because the dick theory comes in to play, always. A matter of Physics which always supersedes any common sense any asshole has left in his brain.

Ring, ding, a ling ding.

I smile, press the little button again, and wait.

Bingo.

The door cracks open. I see these sick eyes, stalk of white hair, staked against a wrinkled, tan face, blood shot eyes leering past this little chain, which Earl could chew through, if he had an-inkling to do.

Now I think I mentioned I never fib, but this is one of those special occasions. So I did, and it went something like this.

“Who are yo?”

“ I’m me, Jennifer.”

“What a ya want?”

“ Yer doc Phillips? Right.”

“Yeah.”

“Well blue eyes, I’m yer party treat for the night, Wayne sent me.”

“ Wayne?”

“Yeah, you like balloons don’t ya?”

“ Yeah.”

“ Well what ya waitin’ for good looking, you want to fuck me, or not?”

Topless me, rolled the cubes, figured he knew Wayne Newton one way or the other.

It didn’t really matter for he was a goner at Hello, what with me looking all Jen Aniston adorable and such.

The cubes rolled-good on the green felt. They mostly do for me.

The chain moved, the door opened and, then he was surprised, not in that I’m a lucky guy way, but in a bad way. For lurking there, patting a hand that looked like twenty pounds of Chorizo with a ball bat was the biggest, baddest, frightening, scariest black dude he had ever seen.

He was his worst nightmare, just like the kind he had built that prison wall to keep out of his fucked up, privileged life.

“Say hello to my leettle friend.”

“BOOM.”

It sounded like that, as Earl poked the doc in the forehead with the bat tip.

Doc went down, we walked in, closed the door behind us. Earl, following my baseball signs, you know, grab yer balls, pull yer ear, blow yer nose, dragged doc by his shoe laces like a bag of turnips into the house.

He then went to the plate, no bunt sign and swung away.

It was fucking beautiful.

xxx

Didn’t want more blood, bruises or cuts on my hands, was tired of that. I mentioned that before and didn’t want doc DOA at The Tombs at the precinct

I figured those Arian Brotherhood Homies, with tattooed tears on their eyeballs over there at The Federal Lockup, named Luther, Orvis, and Arvan, love guys who fuck up kids.

I figured why snuff him, when he could get his ass blistered, reamed out for the rest of his life by the dudes in the Brotherhood. It was the right thing to do, I figured.

So feeling all filled with attrition and so benevolent, I guess, I had Earl Kapow him a couple of times again.

I heard both of his knee caps “POP” like the report from my 44 magnum back at home.

By gosh I was right coming here.

We nosed around and found a couple of steamer trunks, lots of Louis Vuitton matching luggage, need a heard of African porters to get the stuff to the airport.

Also found a 1st class ticket to Rio, a pic of the doc, sitting on a 65ft Bertram Motor yacht. He had his skinny arm around some brown skinned Brazilian, stunning honey. Both of them were holding a pink drink, little blue paper umbrellas in them.

Doc looked happy. Why the fuck not. I would have fucked the Samba girl for free.

I kept the pic, liked the girl and tacked it to the wall of my PI office later.

I like nice memories. Sometime I can be sentimental that way.

I snooped around some more and found a Halliburton aluminum briefcase under his bed. It had two-hundred thousand large in it, cool. Nice girls get nice gifts.

Gave half to Earl, figured I’d add my half to the fifteen large I was gonna give to father Bob.

Well, what could be better than that?

Earl hugged me out, almost broke my back, he was one happy God Man. I couldn’t help thinkin’ about his dick and how beautiful must that be.

On good girl time now, I benched that thought, snuck around some more as doc moaned and groveled around the floor.

Found a bunch of colored card board bank boots, red, blue, yellow like my balloons. I saw that doc had millions squirreled away, Swiss, Caymans, Panama and Bermuda too.

I have some of my loot in the Caymans, ME BAD. Have a computer geek buddy of mine, works for the IRS. It will take him about five minutes, (all the bank codes were there too) to wire the dough anywhere I want for a coupla grand of course. I’ll drop a large tip on him, always do.

I love smart geeks who bend the rules at times.

I’m a big fan of those Whale Guys on TV. Hero sailors, keeping those bastard heathens in Japan from killing the most elegant and largest creatures to ever habitat the earth,

Sea Shepards Society. That’s their name.

I already sent them a hundred grand. I got a nice TY note back, an invite for a sit down dinner and a boat ride. I declined, figured they didn’t need my skinny ass prancing around, me knowing what a distraction that can be for men of the sea.

Especially I figure for sailors, they being away from TRIM for so long, so far out to sea.

Good idea, I’ll send a Mil of Docs slag over there to the pirates. I know Doc would have been proud of that and, then I will sprinkle, sprinkle the rest around to various charities.

I feel good about that.

Anyhooo, Earl duct-taped the Doc to this big black-panther statue the doc had bought in Bangkok. He gave him a Boing on the head with the bat, just because he could.

After, we cruised back to my loft, kisserooed and smooched a little, I am hopeless.

Ooooh, he had lips like Ike’s.

Fuck, I’m already straying.

I was tempted to fuck Earl, but no, maybe later, not now.

I waved good bye to Earl, skipped to the loo to my office, fired up the cell, whistled up Lou, told him what was, what.

Man, he’s smelling, Captain on his lapels.

He thanked me, said. “Don’t worry about anything, for he’d handle the after birth.”

Which he and a bunch of bulls did.

Later, he whistled me up on my cell, and told me the story.

After he nabbed the doc he said the puke was bitching about some semi-naked blond, who looked like she was an eighteen year old UCLA cheerleader.

I’m blushing, tee-hee, still got it.

Said some creature that looked like King Kong home invaded him. They then beat the poop out of him.

Lou pooh-poohed him, said he must have taken a bad hit of acid.

Us Cops stick together. We’re a small club, but a cool one.

We promised to powwow soon.

I slapped my cell shut, feeling phat that another night’s work had been done and knowing a good time was had bye all, cept doc of course. It didn’t go down so nice for him.

So the next day, I got another call from Lou, giving me the final details of our great times.

Said, about a thousand guys in Swat, Vice, Homicide, and of course CSI had decimated the gate. With bull horns blaring, battering rams, multiple high ballistic weapons, they nabbed the Doc.

They threw him in the paddy wagon, zipped off with about fifty news vans tagging along to document all of it.

Lou’s no fool.

He knows that good press gets a good cop his gold captain bars faster than arresting jay walkers. Lou knows that.

That kinda brings me back to King, and the favor he’s asked of me tonight. Which with out hearing it, as long as it doesn’t have to do with me muleing drugs through the airport, I would say yes too.

King, aaaah King, we have a history, all good so far, especially for him.

Lately, I’m more than worried about him, because I may have fucked up, gentrifying him a little too much. I am convinced folks are going to die tonight, and I don’t want it to be King. I and sure as heck don’t want it to be me.

King, as a kid came out of East St. Louis, oldest ghetto story in the book.

Ten kids, dad gunned down at thirty. Mommy dearest was a crack whore. He had three brothers, a sister riddled with bullet holes. His life drug’s, drive byes and it’s either pro hoops, or a concrete street tomb. The options for a bright black kid, well, you know, none and none.

King wasn’t born with a gold Ducat in his mouth, say like those Kennedys, Rockefellers, and those asshole Bush kids. You know, old Maine money mama boys who got a numbskull elected to the Presidency of the USA.

Though that was yer basic coup-d’état.

A pin head zealot that was one big toe smarter then that boy playin’ the banjo on the stoop in that radical flick Deliverance.

GWB was basically, a messianic ayatollah who thought he had a direct line to god. Because he did, he wiped out about three hundred thousand innocent Iraqi’s and about-five-thousand valiant and beautiful US GI’s.

He also left the amputations wards over there at Walter Reed working 24/7 trying to sew back fingers, feet, arms, legs and everything else onto the fucking bravest soldiers the fucked up planet has ever seen.

Calm Jane. OK.

Not everybody who doesn’t suck college is brilliant. Some folks have other ideas, EG; Bill Gates, Steve Jobs.

King one day, he still doesn’t know why, packed a back pack, turned the key in his mom’s crack house, hopped a Greyhound and ended up in Vegas.

And, then over ten years, he chewed, fought, ripped and with unheard of courage, shot, killed, used fists, knives, and guns and became King, the totally righteous dude that he is.

Most dummies know, well most except Barry McCafferty, ex Drug Czar, tee-hee, gives me a stitch in my side every time I hear that term, that Probation was a snafu.

Ya just can’t keep people from getting what they want, and King was no dif than say ole Joe Kennedy back in those Probation times.

He was a smart guy who used to get a bunch of row boats in the thirties and oar over to Canada and lug back the juice for a thirsty nation. He made a shit box of money as he did Al Capone.

King, is just, in my mind, an entrepreneur doin’ the same thing. He’s filling a demand for people who need some kinda shit to mask the pain most Americans feel go away.

A moment to moment grief their consumed in as they watch the nation die a very slow death listening to politicians countless lies.

Geese, close yer yob, get on it with, Pleeeease...OK, so I will.

MORE on King.

I met him by fate. It’s a long-story. It involved guns, bullets, blood, death and respect finally. Lot’s a respect. That’s a story for another day.

In my line of work it usually brings odd sorts around me, won’t go into that.

We became buds. You know, I protect you’re black-ass and you protect my ass, as small as it is.

Tee hee, hee.

And moi, well I did like I told you. I got King legit, almost. He’s almost there.

In that run of the Tarot Cards, I found a mega intelligent, dead handsome stud with a great wit. He’s solid and a stand up guy. Above all a dude who gives his word, keeps it, is honorable, and would be there, if I ever needed some help, 24/7, which he has before.

I respect him, of course, for he’s never run whores, hurt kids, women, or dogs.

He has this kinda loco honor system about broads.

He respects them, protects them, cares for them and never abuses them. I’m sure it’s all about mom.

Hey, lots a guy’s get totally fucked by their mother’s. I’m sure it was that way for King, though in a bad way.

OK, to make a long story short, never my strong pin point, I got him, like I said almost legal. We’re deep into The Market, Futures, Currency’s, Derivatives Trading I learned at Wharton’ and some fast food joints and also a launder mat here and there, other stuff I learned at Wharton too.

I’m a little concerned and that’s got my Zen Head worried, for he may a peaked a little too soon.

Meaning I got the feeling he’s dream in’ a little too much about retiring. Maybe buy a yacht, do some sailing, and because it’s his thirty-fifth B-day today, he’s just not thinkin’ straight, which I of course do. Especially when it comes to anything to do with Mexican Drug Cartel guys, which this latest business venture he’s involved in is.

Why, because I don’t want King to be the main-ingredient in some plate of Carne Asada at some taco -stand in Nuevo Laredo Mexico.

And moi blowing bubbles and looking at some of Gumbos friends with a pair of concrete stilettos on my cute feet at the bottom of Lake Meade. Which is the whole point of me internalizing all this crap I have in my head for Its my job to always plan ahead.

I think I mentioned that before.

So I had a sit down with King at a Starbucks he half owns, me owning the other half.

Having a partner like King, well I don’t think a quarter has ever gone missing from the till. He’s sort a drives the fear of reality into the kids heads that work the place. That is a good thing.

Real light hearted and such he said it was his B-day.

He also said. “It weren’t nothin’ the little soirée we was going to because he’s dealt with these mooches before.”

He casually mentioned there had never been a glitch before. Except, (I hate that word) they were a little late with their delivery this time, for a coupla kilos of coke, which he pre-paid for.

I made King cross his heart on my 357 Magnum and promise me this is his last deal concerning drugs.

He said, AMEN on that little girl.

What in the FUCK was he thinking?

They were going to weasel the slag through one of about a thousand tunnels they got going under the Mexican border fence.

Border fence, really?

That always gets tons of chuckles from me.

Seems there had been a delay, another word I hate. Because one of those fucking Predator Drones the guys at the DEA use was floating around the night they were going to use the choo-choo train they got down there below, to deliver the stuff.

So, King, being in his festive mood, and with the promise, (that always works with homicidal drug maniacs) that they will refund his dough tonight, asked me if I could throw down some reservations at some glitzy joint eatery on the Strip.

Seeing I know everybody in Vegas, he wants me to dress to the nines and take Carlos, FUCKING PERFECT, and have some cocktails and grub with him and me. Me being the eye candy for the night. Make it a fancy evening, you know.

Eat fine viddles, maybe do a spin on the dance floor, you know at some soulless club like Plumb. Then later, have a nice sit down and get his money so he can sleep happily ever after in his new dream world.

Of course all the rockets, flares and Hydrogen bombs are detonating in my big brain and telling me that nothing is ever as it seems.

I then ask him. “Why not just take Earl?”

Earl being a real asset and the kinda guy that bullet’s look like they could bounce off of his gold grill might be just what the meeting needed. The kind of scary guy some hard studs might take a second glance at, before they fucked you five ways to Allah.

He NAWS me, chirps. “Chill doll, it’s me B-day, let’s keep it easy, fun, light, its his birthday.”

Maybe, his last in my mind.

“But King.” I fucking moan...Don’t’ ya thin...”

“It’s all good, Janie.”

He says, if he brought Earl, well instantly the monolith, just by his very presence, might make some folks edgy, a bit un comfy. He might bend everybody’s good juju.

So because he wants these maniacs to have some eye-candy for the night, he asks me.

“Can ya Janie, look all dollish tonight? For me?”

Hispanic pukes love American girls, for the obvious reasons. They are the most savage and uninhibited freak girls on the planet and they will fuck you silly and never ask for dinner afterwards.

But also King, no dummy, wants me there for another reason.

“Janie, just be there. You know, with that secret you’s carry in yer rhinestone purse, just in case.”

I like none of it, but what’s a girl to do, he’s my bud, and well, I just can’t say no.

I reluctantly agree, feeling my tiny toes curl in my steel toed boots. I tell him not to dress just yet.

Over the years I’ve weaned him from the gangster togs, and now he’s gone all European, shirts, suits, shoes, and such. I

I’m not a fashinista diva for nothing and I have his B-Day gift in the Buick.

“Come on, I have something for you.” I kiss him on the lips, he likes that.

I’m creaming just waiting to give it to him.

Earlier I skipped over to that massive indoor den of inequity mall thingy they got goin’ down over there at the Venetian. You know Cardin, Lauren, Armani, Marc Jacobs, Dolce & Gabanna, Tiffany’s, etc, etc, etc a few days ago.

Then, I had copped him a black Armani suit.

Three gees baby.

Added on a Calvin Klein pure white linen shirt, a red Steven Land neck tie, the kind you can make a Contrast Knot with, very chic.

To put the cherry on top, I bought him a black pair of Crockett & Jones, English Half Brogue’s, tie-ups. I topped the Sunday off with a solid gold tie clasp, with a small 38 on it.

I pre ordered that from Tiffany’s.

That’s Holly’s fav place, just to set everything off in a classic way. King deserves nothing less.

Since I’m only good at tying ribbon knots into my boots and my tits, and pretty much nada else, I had the store folks put the stuff in boxes. They tied a lot of colored ribbons on them and they even made bows. I was grateful for that.

And, then, if you can believe it, they got this store there that does nothing else but sell cards, and stuff. They got I’m for every occasions.

You know birthdays, births, weddings, abortions and even had one for condolences.

You know when some insane kid gets jilted by a cheer leader from the pep squad and, then decimates about twenty of his class mates with an AK-47 at the local high school.

And that got me to thinkin’, me being the entrepreneur that I am. How about a card for fucking, you know.

“Dear June, great fuckin’ last night, just the best. A night to remember. We loved tapping that booty of yours. You’re an awesome bitch, amazing piece a booty. Best and big love. Buster, and all the guys from the Lacrosse team.”

Heck, you could do every sport. It seems like a swell idea. I will call Hallmark when I get home, see if they bite.

Anyhooo schlepped the stuff into my Buicks trunk, which I’m opening now, so I can give King his birthday present. I even got this little card that’s say:

Happy Birthday King on it. I, hope there’s more.

I suspect that there will be, that is if I can keep my shit together tonight.

King was smiling as I slopped the presents right near the tail fins. I saw that my Mossberg was there, a box of shot gun shells, resting right near my baseball bat and machete. That’s stuff that I usually have at hand just in case bad karma happens. I then closed the trunk.

He’s looking all dreamy at me and such, can’t blame him, I am me after all.

I make him say the Eagle Scout pledge. You know, promising me he won’t open them until tonight, which he does. I get a hug. I “Ooooh and a kisseroo.” I liked both.

I make a time for the sit down with the Mexicanos. Hopping the door of the Buick, I fire her up, plug in some Dr Dre, and hip hop all the way home.

I love my car. It was a time when Detroit built them out of iron and steel. When belching smoke from a 302 engine block and powerful RPM’s as a girl cruised through a once radical America met something, met a girl was a free bird. No more, though, and it’s a tragic times of corporate greed, and everything has become monetized and stamped out ordinary into nothing ever special again.

So that brings me to Moi, always a very important thing, especially for tonight.

I jettisoned style, I mean that slavery to fashion thing dog years ago. But that don’t mean I still can’t get it up when I want to look like a super doll.

Which I can at a drop a dime at any time.

I need to go shopping, because as I mentioned before, a plan is paramount to a girl thing being a reality. Use what you have, so I need to get sexed out.

I mean really, really look solar, me knowing that stray eyes, my bod, face, eyes, miles of legs and most likely my cunt might just be the ticket I need to survive the night.

Now I need to so some shopping for some super rags. Just, you know, props every pro gal with a gun needs at times to make a first impression and stick like epoxy to some guy’s eyeballs.

A little distraction never hurts when crunch time comes.

So I check on Gumbo, Stella in their fish tank. I think I surprised them fucking.

They look all good.

I grab my PI, drivers and gun license and get my American Express Platinum Card. I am going to need it that bad boy.

Making sure my leather hip huggers are set low on my hip, I grab a black Hoodie and look all around.

Life looks good as I turn and jet down the stairs, out the iron security door.

“CLANG.” It locks.

I fly over the doo of my Buick, settle in, hit up my girl, rev her duel Richard Petty carbs and slot some Prince into the CD machine.

I light a smoke and, then hit it, moving towards the Las Vegas Strip. You know, where they have all the dead bodies buried. I’m pretty happy, and why not.

Me Jane, Vegas Pi and that’s a good thing.

XXX

“YIIISH.”

I’m fucking traumatized, as six hours later, I’m lugging all this stuff back, bags, and bags of the stuff into my loft and the ‘Thing’ I picked up on the way.

More about that ‘Thing’ later.

The elite mall was packed with grazing herds of Japanese tourists, cameras everywhere, Chinese, Taiwanese and European tourists shopping too.

There were tons of Arab women, sans black sheets, for when there away from Jeddah, they become very different girls. They become western females, wearing makeup, consumed with style, jewels, clothes, high heels, lip paint, all the stuff that would get I’m an ass stoning back there in The Kingdom.

My nerves feel like pin balls, my head hurts, my butt aches and my feet hurt too, and I tell ya, trying on clothes is an endless state of mania.

No wonder I have made my life so basic. The new ‘Thing’ I have in my arms, well that just complicates stuff more. I need to take a chill pill, get a drink. Wished I smoked pot, I don’t,

So I drop the ‘Thing’ on the couch, look down, see these topaz colored pools of eyes looking at me. I think French, responsibility, love, can’t go there for the moment anyways, so in the kitchen I go.

I grab a bottle of Cuervo, sans salt, lime. I throw two shots down. Adding one more, I take the bottle, adrenaline main lining the alcohol out of my system as fast as I absorb it. I move back into the loft, plop my ass on my couch, kick off the boots. I stab my gym sock clad feet on the coffee table, plug at the bottle, stare at my 56 inch, wafer screen tube.

You know. The ones those Japanese guys make with all the Yen stuffed in their pockets over there at the mall. Corporate profits they pump out of Tokyo every minute of their lives, seeing America doesn’t make jack anymore, except bullets and guns. Which Americans use all three hundred million of them in the States to kill each other with 24/7.

NEWS FLASH for the NRA. (National Rifle Association) People kill people with fucking guns.

“WHEW.”

I’m hesitant looking at the ‘Thing’ staring at me from my couch. I love Ellen Page, Juno that flick. I can hear IT breathing, more on that, in a bit.

I really don’t want to do this tonight, wanted to watch a Heat/Knicks game, what with Lebron and D-Wade being such studs and all. How much fun would they be in the sack?

New York’s got these black Imams, Amare Stoudemire and Carmelo Anthony. Could you imagine a turn in the sheets with those hunks?

Chreeeeist, probably be able to sing the National Anthem afterwards, you know after becoming a eunuch and all, they being so manly and me being so girly at times.

“GULP.”

Tequila, being the great leveler, nerves bending back, calms me a little bit.

I will have to skip the bucket of popcorn and a couple of bottles of Bud tonight. I really wanted Gumbo and Stella to see the game, but I have to cowboy up. Though it’s not Wednesday, I need a shower, shave the legs, pits, make sure my perfect teeth are white, my ragged mop looks nice.

So I guess I’m going to wash it, blow it out, and make it all fuzzy and cute. What I won’t do for a friend and now back to the ‘Thing’ and what the fuck just happened.

I’m not in the besto of moods, you know. The madness of shopping tied my brain in knots, but I was coping. I was trying to be all Jedi and such, and had the top down, listening to Taylor Swift moaning about one more bad boyfriend that done her wrong.

Was trying to get the black spell out of my mind, thinking about Taylor and what a fucked up world she lives in.

Here’s this young, tall, gorgeous blond, whose been scribing her own music since she was ten. Like Chopin, she’s a fucking kid savant, and she’s looking for love dating asshole rock stars, musicians and actors.

I want to BANG, BANG, BANG a knot hole in her head, and yell at her. “FUCKING WAKE UP.” You’re dating actors, and what do they do? “THEY FUCKING ACT.”

Don’t have her cell number, so will shelf that idea.

So I’m toodling down-a-side street, love garage sales, and slop to a stop, smoking a cigarette at a stop sign. Hearing something, I see across the street, on the right, a tract home stabbed with its cousins in a block of them.

There’s this typical American guy, you know, All Pro Albert Haines Worth football jersey on, baggy shorts, weighs about 220, about 5-6. He’s wearing the usual flip flops, a real piece of work.

He’s got this leather belt, and he’s beating shit out of this little golden cowering fur ball of a semi puppy. You know, one of those little whippet Shepards, smart as ya can be. The kind of whizzet that can catch about a million Frisbees, jump through hoops, do flip flops, and can herd about a hundred sheep into a pen from a guy whistling.

I can hear him screaming at her. I guess she was a girl, as he kept on beating on her as I was driving bye.

“WHAT DID I TELL YOU? WHAT DID I TELL YOU?”

Real pronto like, my molars grind, and I keep mumbling to myself as I pass. “Jane, let it be, let it be, let it be, mind your own business.”

I’m just about to wuss out, when I heard those fateful words. “WHAT DID I TELL YOU, YOU FUCKING LITTLE BITCH.”

Whack, whack, whack.

My steel toed boot, really, I had nothing to do with it, had a mind of its own. I staked the brake peddle, my tires locked, some smoke, and the Buick, guess she was thinkin’ for herself too slammed to a stop, right along the curb.

Then, the other Jane, the one not trying to be so good leaped the door, moved to the trunk, popped it and grabbed her Louisville Slugger.

Real angry like (seems like I remember that smoke was stacking out of my ears) I walked with an edge to the guy.

I patted his fat head with the baseball bat.

“Boing, boing, boing.”

It bounced on his head, not hard like, just to get his attention. I wanted to have a chat, a hard chat with the hog, about his use of words when talking to a girl.

Well, you know cowards. He was the kind of mutt that beat on dogs and girls. They can get attituded up real fast.

He turned, saw skinny me, and I could just see it as he strutted there standing still. I knew that he thought that I was the kinda bitch that he thought he could thump on.

I was tired of violence, but what was I going to do?

I said calm, not threatening, because I really didn’t want to go there.

“Please Sir, don’t hit that dog any more.”

Now me and looking absolutely darling in my black hip huggers, and a red t-shirt I had made that said on it Jane is a good Girl just to remind me that I’m trying to be a newer, better Jane, well, looks cute and very fuckable.

Now, within many life changing moments, for him, not moi, stuff slows down, way slow.

I have the ball bat, even though I don’t need it, but because I don’t want to mess up my knuckles again, well whatever.

You know I don’t need more blood, scabs, teeth marks on my knuckles because I want to look pretty tonight, because it’s Kings Birthday.

He looks at me. I look at the cringing pup that has these soft, agate brown eyes that are staring at me with a Thank fucking god you showed up look in them.

He, with the usual nasty attitude of mutts used to beating on females, snarls at me, balls his fists and drolls out his last words, literally.

“Listen you skinny cunt, why don’t you fuck off, BIATCH.”

Well there it is, always the so wrong answer.

I smile and, then Bitch Slap him in his fat face with a back hand. I watch as his jowls, looking like ten pounds of Jell-O slosh all around, as he whips back, eyes real mad and so.

He then takes a round house at me, which I step around.

“Crack.” I give him one in his knee.

He screams in pain, perfect.

Bringing the bat up, I slam the point into his gut, rip it up into his chin and hear a loud “CRACK”.

More moaning and weeping.

I’m feeling it, so I clobber him on his head, another “CRACK.”

Stuff going well as he screams, moans, falls like a bag of spuds to the earth.

I see blood, that’s always a good sign.

The mook’s groveling, weeping, as I whip my Jane PI license out of my back pocket. I crawl on top of him, rip a tuft of hair and, then flash him my PI ID. It looks kinda all cop official like, could be a cops thingy as I snarl into his terrified face.

“Detective Victoria Garcia, Las Vegas PD, shut the fuck up, or the boys in blue are going to slot your sorry ass in a cell. GOT IT.”

I figure I’ll zip Lou up on the cell, give him a heads up, just in case the Perp calls, askin’ about a homicidal, violent cop bitch by the name of Garcia.

I know my bud will cover for me. Lou and the boys will get a chuckle out of that, I figure.

Anyhoooo, no words of course, just lots of sniffling, moaning, you know the usual crap out of a born coward’s mouth. I stand and look at the golden fur ball staring at me.

We seem to be communicating as I pick her up.

She goes into a ball, her little pink tongue licking my face, which plants a good feeling in me.

Looking at the guy, and just for good measure I pound the tip of the bat into the back of his hand, and, then clobber him on the back of his head. He goes down for the count.

As I turn, pooch and me walking back to the Buick, me hoping the door, laying her on the front seat, looking like a little jewel, I whisper at her. “You are such a little jewel.”

I think she’s panting something at me with some words in dog code. She seems happy, safe with Jane.

What broad ain’t better when they get away from some sadist fuck whose been beating on them since they can remember.

I for some reason think French.

On the spot I name her Bijou. That’s French for jewel and wondering if she is a French dame, she being so cute and all. I speak the lingo to her, as I slot the Buick in D and feather down the street.

SO, I’m feeling like Mother Teresa, except I didn’t have my womb cemented shut when I was a teeny bopper. Feeling all French and such, so why not, I love dancing with a Paris tango, lingo, so I do.

“OK, venu le bijou, vous venez avec moi, laisse voir ce qui se produit, aucunes promesses bien...oh us basier, que est work...come dessus, laisse le get hors d’ici.”

I think I mentioned that I speak fluent French, and she seems to get it.

Me telling her, her new name, and maybe things might work out, no promises, but let’s see what is what?

So, as I reached out, petted her, I got a tongue kiss and now I’m sitting here on my couch, staring at her and wondering what in the fuck have I done.

I’ve named her, rescued her, me too I guess, and now she’s part of Team Jane.

First Gumbo, then Stella, then Ike, now Bijou.

I’m getting far too many pets in my life. I kinda like it.

I look over at Stella and Gumbo swimming in the tank. They seem to be reading A Street car Named Desire.

They look OK with everything and their new kid. That makes me happy. So I pick up Bijou and get lots of kisses, lap, lap, lap.

She seems happy as I walk across my loft and put her on my bed, pant, pant, pant, wet nose.

I heard that was good sign for a pup. I look at her and know I have to get ready for dinner.

“FUCK, what in the hell do dogs eat?” Crashes in my head.

I could go down to Chang’s, maybe get some egg rolls, chop suey, their always eatin’ that stuff. But I’m terrified that Sehi-Shei might be hallucinating again and might corner me about her hair.

So I look at pooch. I gotta admit I’m in love and say to her. “You stay, kick back. Try not to poop on the floor. If you do, don’t worry about it. I’ll be back with some dog grub. I’ll put a bowl with some water down, so don’t worry about anything, be right back.”

Pant, pant, pant.

Tail wags, wags, wags, good.

I pat her on the head, she likes that, licks my fingers, big smile in return from me.

I walk across the loft, go the kitchen, fill a bowl with H2-0, return and lay it on the floor, more smiles, her and me. I pet her, get a smile and move back across the loft.

Grabbing some cash from my cash thingy, I hit the stairs and am gone, next stop the convenience store on the corner. It’s the one with all the security bars on its windows, and a sawed off 16 gauge shotgun behind the counter.

Ten minutes later, I’m back, two huge bags of doggie chow with me. I bought every dog product they had at Wong’s convenience store.

He’s great guy, one of those Vietnamese boat people. He’s worked his ass off, wife, eight kids, 24/7, cept Vietnamese New Year’s.

They took that day off, pillar of society, brave people, just made it out and barely got out with a pair of chop sticks after the USA ass fucked his people.

You now, right after the fucking Yanks they said they would never do it.

Empty the stuff on the chopping block, cans and lots of them of dog stuff, liver, beefy treat and kidney food. I guess dogs love that kind of chow, don’t know. I never had a dog before.

Asked Wong what he thought, knowing he has a dog, or he eats dogs, can’t remember which.

He suggested boxes of Puppy-Kibble; pups have small teeth, got two bags of that. I also grabbed a bag of some Purina dry dog food. The words on the bag guaranteed it would make Bijous coat shine, would be good for her tummy, lots of vitamins.

Seemed right, those folks been making dog vittles for ever. I can’t remember any dog deaths from it on Bloomberg Financial News.

I gotta trust somebody, I guess.

Got her a couple of those cowhide dog chews. Wong said when their young they like to eat furniture, pillow and desk legs. I hope they will help her during her formative years, when ever the fuck those are.

Let’s see. I have to get her a leash, collar, one of those dog harnesses, for walks and all. I will buzz over there to Pet Smart when I have time.

It’s a huge place, nothing but pet supplies, cats, dogs, birds, rats, lizards, probably for pet Oysters too, if you ask them real nice.

I get a couple of bowls and fill them with some of the dog steak food. That’s what it says on the can, another with dry food. Balancing them like a waitress at Denny’s, I move back to her.

No poop yet. I wouldn’t have minded if there was.

I lay them on the pine and look at her. She’s as cute as a mink button.

Picking her up, I set her on all-fours. She sniffs, sniffs, sniffs at the chow and looks at me.

I get it. She’s waiting for the belt again.

I kneel, take her little snout in my bruise less fingers and, then look into the two kindest brown eyes I have ever seen. I feel a tear, my own and whisper to her like the sweet angel that she is. “You just listen doll, yer Aunt Jane is never going to let anyone hurt you again, I just want you to know yer family now. OK?”

I swear she’s smiling, as she licks my hand and my face.

Because I’m nuzzling her, and she’s stopped the tremors, she peeks at the food and, then hits it, and eats like she’s a starving wolverine. I guess she’s feeling peace, safety and surrounded in love.

Probably for the first time.

Life is on the up swing, nothing more I can do now. I haven’t heard her bark yet, know she will.

You know, at the park, chasing discs, riding around in our Buick, tongue waging, barking at other dogs and hopefully telling them.

“Look how phat I am. I got the ride, the license and the babe. She’s got a gun, so don’t fuck with us. Three squares a day, and a bitchin’ crib to live in, and to boot, two rad gold fish as my new buddies.

That’s my girl. Gotta scoot, get ready, see ya in a few.

Jane, Vegas PI, over and out.

XXX

CARRYING a bouquet, and handkerchief and gloves, proud of her height as when she lived, she moves with all the careless and height-stepping grace, the extravagant courtesan’s face of perfection.......

That’s right, that maniac, drug addled, Absinth struck bad boy Baudelaire wrote that, and how does he know...LOOK AT ME.

Vanity, vanity, vanity.

But, I’m working on it, as I pirouette on my nifty, sexy, new 3 inch, zip on the side, black Marc Jacobs ankle boot heels.

Legs never looked better, long, lean, bod like a whisper.

I like being 6-2, a real tower of power in stiletto heels.

I’m decked out in my eight inch above the knee, little, black Betsy Johnson cocktail dress. I read in Vogue, French edition that every gal should have one; A Little Black Dress.

I also have my brand new Dolce & Gabbana black silk jacket on. Normally wouldn’t wear one but, I might need to conceal my Beretta. So always thinking ahead is moi.

No jewelry, except my dress up gold Latina-cross on a chain. I love that look. I don’t believe in god, there are so many, but working on that too.

Hair kinda looks like Bijous, fluffy, soft, looks like I care.

I check out Bijou. She hasn’t left my bed yet, ate like a mule, that’s good.

Then, I get up close and personal with the reflector mirror on my armoire.

I check out my makeup, which is kinda fun.

Eyebrows, hair snow white, hate using clichés, but that’s them, heavy mascara and eye liner, blue, black, tints of orange. I kinda look like a blonde Zoe. See. I can still learn looking at my mascara silhouetted indigoes.

I have wheat colored lip stick on. I look ghostly, pale, eyes stark. I look almost invisible.

I mentioned before that I am whisper girl, love the look and know King will to. Of course no panties, thinking ahead, you know, might need a last sec distraction.

The pink pearl always works. Ask Eddie about that, if he’s still alive.

OK, have to kick it. I walk over and check out Bijou, open eyes, smiles, pant, pant, pant and a lick on my hand. I smile too.

My girl looks happy, safe. I know that she knows the bastards would have to get through me, to get to her. How? I don’t know. I just know pooches understand cool, love when they get it.

I hope she’s happy. I know I am.

Back to the couch, I look at the flat screen, wondering how the Knicks, Heat game is doing, later. I TIVOED it, or will watch Sports Center later. That is if I’m still alive.

I open my super duper slender Rebecca Minkoff, black satin clutch, the one with the real moonstones beveled everywhere around it. The perfect clutch, the one that just fits my Beretta, silenced of course to a tee.

OK, cherry Chap stick there, silencer, Beretta too. I don’t figure I’ll need an extra clip, it is what it is, just enough room for my stiletto, love this clutch.

It holds the basics of my life; all of my girl favorite things.

I giggle, giggle, no makeup in my clutch, no brush, comb, no golden rings, just a loaded hand gun which is another of my favorite things.

Am thinking of getting my Mood Ring out of the card board box that holds my baseball card collection in it, but nix that idea.

I already know I’m in a bitchin’ mood, hopefully that will last, or not. Gun play can throw a swizzle stick in a girl’s good mood, if she allowed that.

Let’s skiddooo.

I grab my Apple C-4 cell, text King that I’m on my way.

Teetering on my new heels, I stand, feel edgy, great and wired. It’s all the stuff I am before a good time or homicide.

I glance at the blue translucent water world of Stella and Gumbo. Their doing something, I never know what.

Grabbing my jacket, I click, click, click, (love the sound of heels on pine) and move to the steps, take two at a time, then “Damn.” I forgot to do something, almost always do.

So I click back up to the loft, hit it to the Aquamarine colored water world of the aquarium. I do a tap, tap, tap on the glass with my paint less fingernail.

Stella and Gumbo swim over, you know, with those little fluttering oars they got on their sides.

I turn the page on Street Car, smile at them and give them the thumbs up. I smile, and turn and tap over to a watching Bijou. I kiss her on her nose and get a joyful tongue lick back.

I rough up her fur, she smiles as I dance back to the stairs, feeling better.

I hope Stella and Gumbo are enjoying themselves, are happy. I sure know I am.

Signing off, JANE, VEGAS PI.

xxx

VEGAS, off of MLK, near the freeway underpasses, staked over a cardboard box world, black alleyways, a dying, dead universe, the red fluid pumping from severed arteries, urine and semen, white powder sizzling on a silver-plated-spoon. Blood neon splintering off of the chrome of a needle point and desperate people, lost within an illusion, a lie, drug addicts, homeless, hopeless, it’s the new America, a tragic world, my world, Vegas Jane PI’s world.

Dusk, onyx clouds, color of cordite, gun powder grey, last lightening strikes of the storm, mimicking flames fluming out of the tip of a hand gun barrel. I

I see the Vegas neon, a carrousel of colors off there, on the Strip, not far from King’s house now. I always make the cruise past the destruction of the human soul. It’s just a reminder, life nudges that I got it all, be grateful for it all and I am.

“My mama said, that yer life is a gift, and my mama said, there’s much weight you will lift. And my mama said, leave those bad boys alone. And my mama said, before the dawn. And my mama said, you can be rich or poor. But my mama said, you can be big or small. But I’m always on the run, always on the run, but I’m always on the run.”

Top down, Buick is running true, three inch heels, ankle boots on the shot gun seat. I’m driving barefoot, toes on the gas-peddle. Lenny Kravitz is speakin’ the truth, exactly how I feel, moods, lots of moods, I have them all, music to fit every occasion.

Lenny has to be the most solid, sexiest man alive. I wish I knew him, don’t. I understand him though and think he would like my way. I guess I am just a girl dreaming. What else is new?

Storms gone, rain seems to have cleaned the streets, washing the filth and body parts into the storm drain gutters, cruising down Tropicana.

I take peek-a-boo at the Space Needle casino.

It’s a tall-fucker. Sometimes folks take the Big Louie off of the top, make the big splat on the asphalt of their busted up lives. I can understand that, yes I can. Sometimes life is just too fucked up. Sometimes, it’s the only way to stop the morbidity of it all and to stop the pain is to make the leap.

I get it.

My fingers are tapping to the music, on my black clutch, Moonstones picking up the lights, me feeling so on edge, smoking, just to calm the frazzle.

I’m not comfy at all with what is going to go down tonight. I’m prepared and glad my Beretta is in my purse. There is nothing I like at all about the night, nothing at all. I am wondering if I should have brought an extra, clip? Nope, its either thirteen will do, or not.

Because if one clip doesn’t do it, no time to reload. That is if it comes to that. Which King assures me it will not.

Famous last words.

“Don’t worry about those INJUNS, Colonel Custer. Indians, what fucking Indians? Just kick back, have a good time.”

EXACTLY. That’s what I’m talking about.

“I’M, just saying.”

Take anything for granted in this violent wonder world, and yer dead, case closed, story over. You end up being plant food for the cactus that was Eddie Jett’s last known address.

No thank you very fucking much.

I have too many loved ones depending on me. Bijou, Stella, Gumbo, they need me. I need them; forgot Ike.

Time is weird. I am missing Ike less all the time. I guess that’s good. What would happen if he’s murdered?

Africa’s a mojo world, a dangerous world.

They don’t call it the Dark Continent for nothing. Anything can happen, it always does.

I’m sure when he returns, well, It will be nice, like before. That is if anything ever really is the same as before.

Now Vegas is a shit hole, no doubt about it. But it is also an illusion and can be solid, glamorous at times. That is if you hit up the right folks, know them, like I know them.

That’s why I opted for eatery Olive over there at the Bellagio.

All the great eateries have landed in the grand hotel/casinos. Their like a shadow secret world, service, food, ambience no different then their sisters, brothers in Berlin, Paris, Rome and London.

But, you gotta be connected, know someone, which of course I do.

Because I am moi, have all the bells, whistles, am always generous, super polite and am a shinning star everywhere I go, BIG SMILE, I know Mr. owner Todd English over there at Olive. I also know the cook, and one of my buddies is the super neat French mater dei, Pierre over there.

He’s one of those guys. Sophisticated, classic, a real comfy pro and because I speak the lingo, and do the euro kiss thing on the cheek and am always approachable, (many beautiful bitches are not) well he is always filled with smiles when ever Janie lights up his life, with that smile of hers.

I gave him a toddle-doo earlier, for some RES’S. I could hear his smile through the phone. You know. “Jane daling’, vas missing zee so, merci me amore, of course, nine tonight, vee are honored.”

Of course so am I, for he and Olive are classic.

Fuck, its Kings birthday so why not splat large, we might both be dead manana.

And to boot, I’m starving. I haven’t really eaten a decent meal in days.

So lets make it special times and anyhooo, I’m dying to be adored some more.

Why the fuck not?

Crickey, I am hopeless, but am working still, on the vanity thing, though it mostly is nonsense from my cynical and nutso mind and I know that.

XXX

There’s all kind a secret places in Vegas, and one of them is the block where King lives.

Off of Desert Inn Drive, there are a many streets, stunning, old Vegas, Spanish villas and Med style palaces where guys like Liberace hung their toupees. There are lots a place’s that look like they were sub planted straight out of Tuscany. Lots of Med Villas and festooned with flowers grounds, trees, fountains, burnt umber yellows, red tile roofs, some other looking like French Chateaus too.

During Kings Transformation from gangster to gentlemen/businessman, I, me being the center of the world, tee hee, dragged King out of the ghetto.

Why?

Because he needed some new digs, for we almost had him out.

Because Vegas had been gutted by the depression, and prices had been halved, we wheeled and dealed, diddled and doodled on the price of the 15,000 square foot Spanish Villa.

Just a year earlier it had been stacked at one-point-three mil. It was two acres of primo earth, and we got the joint for six-fifty five, cash money, on the barrel head, sign out of the earth, done deal, sold to me amigo, St. Tropez blue water swimming hole to boot.

Now, because I am Mensa member, I have this little off shore account in the Caymans, which we funneled King’s dough through. It’s a nifty place of illusions, where his cash came back like a clean whistle.

And anyhooo, my buddy at the IRS can fix any snafus, which I never expect. Of course no problem if anything should ever poke their noses into the daylight, which of course did not happen. I am not surprised.

So, all of this is great, except like I said before, King might have lost that one-percent edge that keeps a bullet hole from finding a dudes noggin. That has me worried. I mean really worried. I guess that’s why I’m riding shotgun tonight.

It’s like the flick Prizzies Honor.

What’s the Prizzes is forever the Prizzes, especially their coin.

In my burning head, why would this Carlos monster ever give up two-fifty-large, when a brass cap can erase that debt, in a Scooby Doo, minute.

I’m hoping that’s not the case. I’m a little bit tired of blood on my hands, especially after moi has made such an effort to be pretty tonight for my debut as Kings main squeeze.

Chit chatted King up earlier, just checkin’ facts. I had to groan. I couldn’t believe my ears. King wanted all of us to drive over there, Jamal, one of his lieutenants driving his bullet proof black Caddie Escalade. Carlos with us, in the back seat, me sitting shot gun. You know, me being the arm candy girl for the extravaganza.

NOPE, SORRY.

I can already hear two 9 mil pssssts, pssssts in the back of my blond mop and see the brain matter on the tinted windows.

Told King, rent a limo and tell Carlos we will meet up at Olive and he better be fucking alone.

King had foo-fooed me.

I held strong. He acquiesced. So tonight, its limo time and there it is, Kings Street.

I hang a left, pulse calm, temples throbbing, that Bangkok itch again. What’s wrong with this pictureroo?

Street, like I remembered it, elegant, stylish, old Vegas was you know, before the godless heathen corporations raped it, made a pyramid for the tourists to gawk at.

I drive along, music off, have to concentrate, might jerk off later, picture of Lenny in my head, if I’m still leaking oxygen, that is.

Gate open, pull in, circle drive, cruise past the Yosemite Park that came with the crib. Park, there’s King’s Black Escalade, a Black 364 Beemer, black Hummer. Black seems the color of the day, no blue thank god. I think of Missy.

Fuck, the color black. Reminds me of the color when you are restin’ permanent in a lead coffin, for fucking forever.

Parked to the right is a black stretch, white guy in a black suit, smoking, wiping the windshield, ready to be our driver for the night. Would of preferred Rudy, or Jamal driving, but I don’t figure bad stuff was gonna go down in transit.

I figure the shit will happen, if it does go down, at the exchange, at the Mexican guy’s super sleek, expensive crib at the Tower Condos, where he has a million dollar crib set.

Anyhooo, grab my Marc Jacobs ankle boots, slip them on, six foot two, grab my gun clutch and open the door. Practicing being lady like, I step out, slip on my jacket, feeling beautiful, sexy, pretty, slutty, edgy, aware. I get a big smile from Jamal.

He’s this tall, black dynamite looking kid, who is one of Kings main posse dudes. Jamal is one of King’s Lou’s, a trusted guy. He’s holding a tech nine, alert, now smiling.

Were buds, he loves me too.

Gosh, love seems to be everywhere tonight.

Do the high heel stroll, eight inches of thigh staking out my turf, grab Jamal’s fist, gang hug him. He bangs his chest. I grin, conversation goes something like this.

“Jamal you are such a stud, lookin’ fine my man.”

“Back at you Janie, you lookin’ all THAT. You goin’ take care a him?”

“Yeah Jamal, you happy with what’s goin’ down?”

“NAW Janie, its fucked up, it’s what it is.”

“YEAH, it is.”

Like Lou over there at Vegas Metro, Jamal and I both have hard street creds. Nobody has to drop a beaver on our heads, tellin’ us that bad shit happens to good people.

So, I get a nod, bang my chest with my fist, telling him. “No problem Jamal, nothin’ is gonna happen to our King tonight.” At least I am hoping it won’t.

I take a step, on the red bricks, stall out, there’s King, walking through the door, smiling that megaton smile of his, in MY suit. He’s looking like a younger, better looking Wesley Snipes with a black fedora low on his forehead. I like that, a little ghetto for my tastes, but it works, a lot.

Were eye to eye, he takes my hands, does some stellar gazing from the tip of my pointed toe heels, then way, way up my legs. That’s a long way I assure you.

I have my gold Latina cross on a thin chain as he looks at my new makeup styled out face. Which I mentioned is so featureless, wheaten lips, except for my Glenda eyes, heavy mascara, a little green, some oranges and black silhouetting my blues that are like cannon blasts, detonating straight out to the world to see.

We hug, do the cheek kiss. I am glad I never fucked him. That would have complicated stuff, big time. We exchange words, look at Jamal, he looks worried, me too, nods, he nods back and, then date night begins.

We walk to the limo, get the door opened treatment from the guy, I sit, eight kilometers of skin, driver notices, vanity. Do I love the attention and adoration? You fucking bet I do.

King sidles in, door closes, chauffer back in the cab, engine ignites. We make the turn and sluice out of the place, me wondering if I will ever see Jamal again, alive.

The drive is kinda silent, few words, I don’t want to wig out King.

Yer packin’ Jane?

“Yes I fucking am.

It’s all good Janie, prob won’t need it.”

IS THAT RIGHT?

Trust is bantered around between King and I.

JUST FUCKING GREAT.

I will always trust some homicidal maniac named Carlos from Ciudad Juarez, who would butcher his mother with a garden hoe if it meant one more suit case of money, in a long line of suitcases of it.

Already gave Pierre a honk, told him about this Carlos. I can’t wait to see this piece of work.

Pierre said. “No problem Mademoiselle Jane, zee friend of zee, is a friend of moi.”

Great, there goes my reputation down the drain. No prob, will go the distance for King and I am hoping he is right. I don’t know. Time will tell. It always does.

We swing into the Bellagio, circular drive with green coated valets burning it up, everywhere and alerted. We are VIPS, so far so good. I see a bunch of plaid dressed folks grazing all around. Casinos want their money; all of it.

They are the masses, probably good people, wouldn’t know a Kobe Beef Tartar from a Big Mac. That’s OK, I’m not judging, life is hard and all these folks want is a moment in the glitz.

Anything is better then Biloxi, Trenton, Kansas City, anytime.

Lots of tourists and, then I imagine if as a space saucer just landed, and exiting are these bubble head aliens, oddly beautiful.

You know, Avatar, seven-foot blue people.

As the driver springs the door, I step out, a zillion yards of legs, followed by King.

A hush, along with jaw drops stun the tourists that are gawking at Moi, hopefully. I literally see cell phone flashes detonate all around us that make me tick my hand on my clutch, thinking there muzzle flashes.

No bullets whizzing, thumping, no odor of cordite, thank fucking god, and we have to be someone famous to these folks, especially ME. King again looks like either a Rap magnet, or a movie star and then Pierre is there, smiling, two security guards with him.

I smile, THAT SMILE.

Pierre takes my hand, kisses it. I throw down some of those brush kisses on the cheek. I do the intro of King and receive hosannas from Pierre for me simply being ME.

In the door we go, my fanny burning, one because I’m wearing no panties and two I can feel the heat from all the fucking flashbulbs searing it.

No complaints from Moi. I am, for the moment, the axel that the world revolves on. Of course I am kidding.

PLEASE, Jane, just get through the door and shut your brain and vanity down, for a sec.

So I get to it.

Feeling like Uma Thurmonds prettier, younger sister, and with our phalange of guards, Pierre leading the way, King and I holding hands, we cruise through the Casino

And, then everything gets like, well you know, gets all slow motion and such. I kind of silence hit’s the place.

You know like in the flick Un-forgiven when William Mony walks through the bar doors with a shot gun to kill Little Bill.

SILENCE almost, for King and I, well what can I tell you, right out of Show Biz tonight, which me being me, simply adore.

We get to Olive finally and enter to the sound of china, crystal, real silver tinkling and pinging. We drop the security at the door. T

The bistro is astonishing elegant, old Milan world, as a hush falls over the Palace. Pierre leads us to the bar. Now, I’m either, a fashion super model, a famous actress, or the most expensive hooker in the world.

Which of course are all and the same thing.

We finally hit the bar, which is festooned with hanging glasses, chrome, teak, all the bells and whistles, back lit by blue neon, hate that color. The best booze on the planet is racked everywhere.

I gasp, for there he is, Carlos, looking very Tony Montana like.

And why am I not surprised.

I could of picked him out blind folded of a mass murderer line up, and in my mind he looks like the lead shooter in a casting call for a Tijuana firing squad.

I do the kiss cheek thing with Pierre and tell him to hang for a sec. He bows. I love to be bowed at.

I hand him my black blazer, and of course that cements every stare in the joint at me. I am not surprised, but I am Jane and don’t take it seriously. That’s not saying that I don’t dig it. I still love the fact that I can turn multiple eyeballs, just because I’m me.

Back to Carlos who’s about five seven, obviously in his elevator black Cholo cowboy boots, that with out he’d be five-five, on a good day. I can see his black eyes, back dropped by shades of red, yellow and that he’d drop a kilo of pure crank on King, if he could fuck me. Which is, exactly what I want him to think about.

Plan ahead, remember. Two plans are better than one, three is better then two. I could go on and on, but I am sure you get the idea.

Internally, I am groaning, for he’s got this Miami Vice white suit on, a black shirt and a white tie.

REALLY.

Is this how their dressing down there across the border? I think I could help him, like I did King. But, the guy has so many gold chains on his fat, sweating neck, and a thirty grand solid gold Oyster Rolex on his wrist, well I stab that idea. He seems like a lost cause.

He’s got this stalk of black, greasy hair for Mexicans are blessed with DNA hair. His forehead is perspiring and it looks like you could re fry frijoles on his forehead.

And, then because his eyes haven’t left my bod or my legs, and now my face and I want to be polite, I don’t mention it, as King makes the intros.

I smile.

Made IM blink, tee-hee.

He takes my hand, you know, seductive like, for I’m sure he’s a hit with the putas in the barrio. He grins at me like Ricardo Montalban.

There are those Earl gold teeth gleaming at me.

Speaking of Earl, I wish he was fucking here, man do I ever, but he ain’t.

So, because seduction is my other weapon, use them all and may need them mas tarde, I smile all doll an such, feeling his meat in my fingers.

I smile more and, then speak his lingo to him, which gets more gold grill. As King watches, we literally seduce each other, as he oils on.

As he makes his play, I ooooh and aaaah and call him jefe.

That is the word for big fucking shot in Mexican.

As the spud tells me what a big PLAYA he is, how phat he is with money I’m wonderin’ if I can get my tuna tartar down with him any where near me.

I’m also thinking that King has lost his fucking mind, trusting one percent of this thug.

I know this dude, do I ever know him well, especially after King gave me a heads-up that he’s a player with the Zetas over there in that no-man’s-land, Nuevo Laredo.

There a band of homicidal, sociopathic Mex-Tex maniacs, that have murdered in cold blood, at least thirty five thousand of their fellow citizens, every year just across the border. You know the one that looks like a yellow ribbon of water.

He’s in to everything, drug trafficking being on the top of that list.

Thank God King is one step away from that hideous world.

He moves weapons, pot, meth, ludes, X, dogs, cats, snakes and tweeters, everything that can make him a buck; especially young girls.

The campesino is into people moving, his people. He’s a coyote leading a hundred sweet, desperate Mexican folks to melting desert deaths. There hard working folks that just want a better life.

Their moms, dads and kids that cross a burning hell of a desert, half dying of thirst, rattle snake bites just for better lives. While their relatives eventually get death postcards after their folks are sent flying over the wall by catapults, if they live long enough to even do that.

Then about three make it because most are scooped up by the Border Patrol. Those that do make it, end up washing dishes for some fat fuck doctor for the rest of their lives. No gratitude, no kindness, no sweetness, as they break tinsel steel backs for the rest of their lives doing work that no elitist Americano would ever touch.

I’ve had this conversation with Lou before, and I can make bet on the fact that this Carlos meat is into female human trafficking. That’s another grift Lou told me about that just about broke my heart.

The drug lords scower the interior, border too and, then find these fourteen years old Mexican stunning pheasant girls. They lay a coupla thousand pesos on their dirt poor farmer parents, make the scoot and, then take them to a cutter (Plastic Surgeon) usually along one of the border towns.

Then the doc, I imagine like the one that sliced Missy up, pump silicone bags into them. They get I’m to the beauty parlor, cut their locks, pluck their eyebrows, blond them out, get I’m in the gym, ride the bike, starve them down and stuff them into Tijuana brothels.

With the really gorgeous ones, Lou said, they ship I’m out to The Middle East, COD, where they spend the rest of their lives living in a tent, sucking the dick of some degenerate wearing a white sheet.

The others girls, tricked out, stunners too, get pretty shoes, for the first time, tart whore clothes and, then become border bar girls, fucking ten Americans a day. Most of the ignorant pheasant girls have never been happier, because their getting three squares a day, don’t have to shear corn, milk a goat and live on a dirt floor.

And, then when their youth is gone, their buried in the desert, fucking forever.

SO, anyways, after the fuck released my hand, I gave Pierre the nod. He chaperoned us through the glitz, all eyes on Moi, thank you very much.

He set us down in this leather booth, me not in the middle I don’t like being in a cage. Carlos sat between King and me. I was waiting for the sops hand to fall on my naked knees. That didn’t happen, thank god, because I didn’t want to gun him down in Pierre place. It could ruin a good time had by all if I did that.

I’m of course was starving, been eating more, but have a nervous tummy before what? I do not know?

Then and presto-chango there’s a waiter and Pierre, like a hawk in his tux is standing at attention next to him.

Next to Pierre there’s a silver tureen, ice chips, and a bottle of Crystal chilling in it. Something I wish I was doing at home watching the Heat game, with my family, Stella, Gumbo and my girl Bijou.

Out comes the crystal tulip flutes, bubbly is poured. I can hear its sizzle. I hope I don’t sneeze and, then Carlos, kinda rude, asks Pierre for a Corona as I groan.

I heard their peeing in it in Mexico, hope so. Pierre gives me the, are you fucking kidding me look.

I shrug, smile at Carlos, he grins back. His breath smells like a burning tire.

Pierre turns, back to the bar, King and I wait, toast time coming.

King seems oblivious to everything. I don’t get it. Could he actually be enjoying this sit down?

Fucking MEN, I’ll never get it right.

Pierre returns with the yellow bottle and sets it down. Carlos lifts his brewsky, we clink. I sip, exhale, delicious, my head feeling like it’s got a nest of scorpions in it.

OK, the dinner went down like this, me trying to keep down what I did eat.

King and I shared a scrumptious duo of Pan Roasted Foie Gras Steak.

YUMMY.

It was decked out with spiced quince & apple chutney, caramelized shallots, brioche points, amaretto froth, seasoned with a sprinkle of Balsamic.

We were in a delicate beef mood, so we added an order of Beef Carpaccio, decorated in polenta, Roquefort crema, shaved parmesan, and of course these delicate little cipollini onions, which were out of this world.

Carlos opted, for an order of fries, and a bottle of ketchup, which he wolfed down like the human-sow that he was. No one is perfect, and actually Olive is famous for its fries.

BUT REALLY, is this what King wanted?

I couldn’t, fucking believe it.

He seemed to be enjoying himself, so not wanting to put the screwy on HIS night I pretended that Carlos was Javier Bardin. I rodeoed up, and tried to enjoy my meal. That’s the least I could do for my black stud, me feeling like a Christmas tree ornament for the night.

Still starving, we ordered some Tuscan Farm House flat breads. You know, looking like a Monet painting, shaved Smithfield ham, asparagus, Provolone cheese, caramelized, which again King and I shared, me feeling the cum gathering it was so dreamy.

Carlos had a shrimp cocktail. He being of good manners diligently wiped the cocktail sauce off of his chin with a linen napkin, before it hit the collar of his ghastly white suit.

Because I have the smallest tummy on the planet, King and I shared a Pan roasted Chilean Sea Bass. Protein keeps the brain sharp, also a guy’s dick hard, which I was hoping Kings was, at least.

The fish reminded me of a bigger, blacker, deader Gumbo.

It came with baby artichokes, seasoned vegetable ratatouille, garlic whipped potatoes, shaved fennel, sweetly graced with a citrus glaze.

I think I might of cummed after the first bite.

Our guest, of course, had a Char Grilled Rib eye, with ash roasted fingerling potatoes, sweet onion jam, Piquillo peppers, a port wine glaze, and of course set off perfectly with a garlicky broccolini.

The last thing the pug needed was more garlic on his breath.

His food could have been sautéed in turpentine and he wouldn’t have noticed.

It was quite something seeing the guy chow down. He did use a knife and fork on the Rib eye, which I am sure many patrons around the restaurant were grateful for.

Now, because I am a smart girl, I kept toasting him, making sure a new beer was there every five minutes, for the obvious reason. All the while I was pretend sipping at the Crystal, just to keep my brains clear.

I wanted to stay frosty, sharp, in a killing mode.

I never said much during the dinner, and King and he talked a lot, mostly about bidness.

Carlos black pea eyes kept darting at me all the time, to see if I was impressed, which I smiled that I was. T

hat seemed to please him, a lot. His hand finally found my knee and I didn’t flick an eyelash, smiled and raised my white eyebrows. I shook my blond hair like a whore, laughed like a French Poodle, knowing if bad became badder down the line, he might just hesitate before murdering me because he wanted to sodomize me.

You know so he could rape me later. Which I was sure was coming up next on that menu called life.

Anyhooo, I can’t help but not think that I am the main character in one of those Greek Tragedy thingies, you know like Homers Epos Odyssey.

Me of course being Odysseus.

The hero, cunning, a killer, warrior of the Trojan War’s and the Oracles predicting that he would never see life, home again, thus sending him on a ten year journey. A perilous trek through hostile lands, enemies, and I am hoping like Odysseus I will finally reach Ithaca, alive, intact, which is my beloved loft over Chang’s laundry. Once there, finding safe those there that love me; as I Iove them.

But not NOW as I get bright for the journey is not done. Not done by a fucking NY minute.

Focus. OK.

Sooo, the dinner, disguised as Hades, finally ended.

I kept expecting King to abort the entire thing, for you know, what was he thinking? Those warning hairs on my arms were like a Springer-Spaniels and what the fuck was going on in his cabassa hit up my brain?

NADA. Obviously.

Of course, Pierre copped for the meal, all of it. You know.

“Jane daling’, zee money is no good here, you are zee the moonlight of our simple eatery. We love zeee Jane.”

I of course blushed, hand kisses, cheek kisses, six C notes in his tux pocket, for him, waiters, solmolaires, from moi, smiles, gratitude, whispers, me embarrassed for bringing two hundred pounds of sweating chorizo into his chateau.

But he understood for business is always business and so we scooted.

King, I think it was King wanted to go dancing at the Voodoo Lounge. I had bad Missy memories from that name.

COME ON. Let’s get it done so I can get rid of the acid burning a sink hole in my tummy.

So I did one of those back hand things to my forehead, sans white gloves. I pretended I was a southern belle, instead of a gal with a heater in my clutch.

I promised much dancing, maybe fucking later and corralled them to the front door. Once there, I did not see anything that I liked; nothing at all, once out the door.

Parked in front of the joint, was our guy, the limousine, and behind that was a Black Cadillac Escalade. Loitering there we’re two six-foot-two, 220 lbs thugs, obviously Zetas. They were wearing the standard mid thigh, gangster black leather coats.

Three guesses what those chest bulges were?

I needed only one, as I looked at King, who was laughing at something cleaver Carlos had just said, you know like.

I jeeest am going to keel all of you bendaho pinche white assholes, as soon as I can.

NOT.

King cruised up to me, still thinking of cocktails, dancing, and I guess showing me off, spinning on heels around the disco.

I grinned in absolute terror, pretending to be all happy and such from a conversation that went like this. I said nothing as he spoke.

“Come on Janie, were kipping to Carlos crib.”

OH REALLY KING?

“Yeah doll, take care of bidness, get it done, my man wants to make it right.”

IS THAT SO?

“Yeah, finish up some bidness, so we can dance the night away. Come on, we’ll follows I’m to the Towers Suites, won’t take a minute, let’s go

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, I did not say, but the words were thundering in my head.

SO in the limo we go, and I sit on my tiny ass, wonderin’ about that extra clip, Kings hand on my thigh, like buds, nothing sexual, me wondering what I can say, to advert this madness.

I decided to keep my yap shut, me staring at The Towers, super glitzy Condo sky scrapper just a klick away like it’s a Third Reich death oven, me thinking it’s going to be our tombstone and hoping it’s not.

I gotta believe King knows what’s what. I mean he has too. He’ a little drunk, moi, feeling like I have a cattle prod shoved up my ass. I am amped up alert and sipping at the bubbly.

Let’s get it over, one way or the other. 250 large, well its nothing, certainly my diamond bod isn’t worth that much, it is what it is. OK.

We prowl into the big circle, park in front of everything that is wrong in Vegas. Big glitz, sky scrapper tower place, lots of empty cribs, 2006 inflated prices. It was the big bubble real estate float, movie stars, directors, high rollers, directors paid a mil for a couple of rooms. Great views of the Strip, real estate prices tanked, twenty-cents on the buck, didn’t matter to thugs like Carlos.

They got money growing on Marijuana trees, mules lugging in crates of Cocaine.

We park as the black Escalade parks behind us. I have a plan, a last plan, as I see those gold smiles. All three of the Zetas have gold grills.

WELL that’s just fucking SWELL.

In a chorus of good will we hit it through the door, the doorman grinning, valets parking our rides, chauffer parked off to the side.

Fuck, I miss Earl, Jamal and Rudy too. Where’s the love?

It was supposed to be a simple sit down, easy, casual, Carlos, King, me being the stupid arm candy.

Mexicanos like that in their slut women.

I keep peeking through my raccoon ringed eyes at the slabs of meat. King doesn’t way laid back. To laid back.

Up, up, up we go, elevator music, The Velvet Fog, little lights blinking floor levels. Each ping, ping, ping is drilling a bullet hole in my burning mind.

“CACHING.”

The door opens, down the hall we happy people go.

We enter the whore house, me, last of course.

It’s just as I imagined, a real rectum of bad taste, black leather couches, sofas, loungers, chrome everywhere. Slotted along the bar there are lots of crystal, bottle of booze, huge window facing the Strip lights, really dramatic. There’s a big screen TV, CD, DVDS, stuff, lots of DVDS, probably Snuff movies.

I think of Eddie Jett, wonderin’ if Carlos has a cool collection of pedophile kill movies. I’m sure he’s into that too.

About two feet from the big plate glass, there’s a backless leather bench, a small coffee table, chrome, black leather, glass top, and there it is, a silver aluminum Halliburton brief case. There’s always a Halliburton briefcases that now is separating another comfy little black leather bench, rimmed in chrome. We take our seats, and everyone is smiling, which sends a forearm shiver into my cunt.

I am in a completely no kinda fuck around mood.

I move to Carlos, squeeze his arm. He leaks a look up and up at me. I smile, squeeze a bit more, ask him about the powder room. You know like Holly Go Lightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I almost ask him for a fifty dollar bill. I don’t.

I’m giving him all the signs, you know, fucking, sucking and sodomy later if he’s a good boy. He gets it, gurgles out. “Jest there, me beautiful senorita.”

I grin and almost vomit.

I tell the boys not to start with out me.

Wink, wink at the Body guards. They like me, a lot as I lift my boot to a couch arm, hike my little black dress to the hilt, exposing a hint of my butt. That’s other naked little jewel men think that they cannot live without. I’m glad I’m wearing my black blazer.

All eyes jerked, lascivious glares, I look at the guys, Kings is amused. I seem to blush, straighten and with little clutch in hand, sway into the bathroom, close the door, slam my back against the door, hyperventilating.

Hands on my knees, breath blasting and me trying to force blood into my brain.

Moments pass, I move to the mirror, want to splash water on my face.

Wake up, get sharp. Get it fucking together. I berate myself.

Black mascara masking the fear in my eyes and opaque face, lips. I’m not afraid of death, never have been. No one gets out alive in the end, but not by these ghouls.

Not now, not yet, not never.

Flush the toilet, couldn’t pee if I wanted to.

Get ready doll, yep I am, hopin’ it ain’t so, so I do.

“CLICK.”

I prime my Beretta, shove it into my back waistband and out the door I go

XXX

Walk out into the grand living room, see the sit down. Carlos is sitting on his bench, coat off, behind him, black leather thigh jackets, the evil giants on either side of him, Vegas neon twinkling innocently behind them.

Thought it was going to be a fun evening, just an exchange, loot owed, why the muscle?

King is sitting on the bench in front of them. The Halliburton is on the plate glass, me knowing when that damn thing opens there maybe will be a tuna in it, or phone book.

You know the kind the CIA used whacking those guys in Iraq with, after they water boarded them, which that ghoul Rumsfeld, his Dracula buddy Cheney said wasn’t torture. Unless of course, it was being done to you and, then it is horrific torture.

Drowning really is a horrendous thing.

I twirl to the bench, light the room with my smile, sit and spread my bare legs. There goes the skirt, eye ticks at my pink thing, the Zetas like us lean, us towering All American blondes.

King grins, loving the show this Vegas show girl always brings. He then chirps. “Lets get it on Carlos buddy, we have dancing to do.”

DANCING. REALLY?

All I can think of is they will be dancing on Kings grave, as then Carlos grins, that grin and, then the world falls to complete slow mo.

I take a deep breath, as the grease balls hands lay on the aluminum, and two “CLICKS” reverberate through the room.

As the Halliburton lid rises, as planned I open my legs a little wider, do a little attention drawing cough, as my heels plant on the floor, and my legs part, showing the solar, naked flare glowing out of my cunt.

Tick, tick, tick.

The clock moves as the thugs hands hesitate, moving into their coats, their eyes locked on moi, HER, that pretty golden bauble between my golden thighs.

Carlos distracted, leering too, as the briefcase slaps open to the glass, and there it is. It’s not a tuna, but lots and lots of newspapers, and everything is closed down, by my exposed cunt, Carlos hand moving behind his back

Time is dead, maybe for a sec as King looks at me. I look at him, everybody looking at my magic pussy

And then “Pssssst, Pssssst, Psssst” sizzles through the room, me in a crouch holding my Beretta with one hand, prefer two, didn’t have time.

Zip, zip, zip, three bullet holes in their foreheads.

Carlos slammed back onto the floor, on his side, the lug nuts behind him dead before they hit the floor. The stunning view of the Vegas lights is now abolished by blood, brain matter and shards of skull as they painted the window, opaque red.

King looks at me, I smile, blow the smoke from my silencer tip.

Cute I am as do an Annie Oakley twirl with my Beretta and stand. I look at King, with you know, my usual perfect, ego driven, I WAS FUCKING RIGHT look.

Not wanting to rub it in, It’s Kings b-day after all, but a little mirth never hurts, as I purr.

“Well, who’s your daddy King?”

King grins, looks at me and says.

“I’m you bitch doll, you are the Bong, how’d ya know Janie?”

I smile, say something like let’s gab later.

I call King over as I move to Carlos and hover over him, Beretta still ready. And absolutely not wanting any more blood on my hands, or my Marc Jacobs, we might go dancing later, still want to look pretty, I kick Carols over.

BINGO, just as I thought. There’s a 45, military US Marine issue, stuck in the back of his waistband. The Zetas love those gats.

I actually want to Boink King on the top of his noggin, just for getting’ US into this mess.

But I don’t. Birthdays should be fun, as he whispers to me. “Geesh, they was goin’ to whack us.”

NO FUCKING KIDDING.

I nod to and move to the muscle, flip their jackets open with the tip of my silencer, exposing silenced Glocks nesting in their Velcro cages.

King looks at me, I look at him.

He leans in, grabs me, gang hugs me, a lot. I’m happy, as he whispers some respect, gratitude and love to me. Which as the bitch queen of the world that I am, I accept, for I love hosannas, especially after a job is well done.

I break away from him, and without any smug, I say.

“Get on the cell, get Jamal, Rudy, some cleaning guys, get I’m here pronto. You know, mops, buckets, hack saws, some plastic bags, some golf bags. Come on, let’s snoop, bet YA there’s some presents in the bedroom.”

I love presents.

King nods, I’m in charge, hits up his cell and gets the machine moving as I click into the bedroom, loving the sound of my stilettos on the faux paux pine floor.

As mentioned before, snooping around is one of my fav things.

Let’s see, where do gangsters keep their slag? Under the fucking bed of course.

OH MY GOD, no one would ever dream of looking under the bed, which now on my hands and knees I am about to do as King moseys in.

With my skirt hiked around my waist, bare ass shining to the world, I turn my head and see King staring at my ass. I am complimented, give him a wry stare. He smiles, shrugs his shoulders, me thinking, because I am so jacked up, I might give him a birthday fuck later.

I will think on that, and there they are, two aluminum Halliburton brief cases.

Geeesh, I gotta check their stock on my on line Schwab trading account.

I pull them out, stand and slap them on the bed.

King sidles up along side of me. I wish there were red ribbons on the briefcases, me remembering those folks at the mall, with the ribbons and all.

“Click, Click, Click, Click”

Both cases are opened, and my goodness that is a lot of hundred dollar bills

I figure a half mil, and OH MY GOODNESS, there must be about ten kilos of pure Colombian crank in the others, in sealed plastic bags. Just the kind I am sure Carlos and his buddies were going to wrap my face with as they gang raped me and, then murdered me.

King looks at the slag, me, the slag.

He places his muscled arm around, my bare shoulders. We’re really good buds, and because he knows he’s breathin’ because of me, and I swear I see a tear, I realize that man it’s time for him to get out of the drug trade.

Like I mean, NOW.

I know he’s lost his edge as he whispers.

“Shit Janie, I’m sorry, I fucked up, what was I thinkin’? Fuck baby, what can I say, thank you doll.”

I go to the fingers, hands clutched, extended, staring at my black beauty. I ditch the attitude, no one is perfect, were friends, more than that, bro and sis.

I nod, smile and, then whisper. “Are you going to take me dancing, or what the fuck?”

I see real tears, as he smiles, nods, and roars in laughter.

“Your fucking ALL THAT, more, come on, lets scoot, I love ya, you know that, right Janie?”

“Ditto baby, lets boogie, I feel like dancing tonight.”

He grins. We slap the Halliburton’s closed. King takes the drugs, I take THE money.

We turn, move out of the bordello, to the door, peek back at the dead, know the world, MY world, KINGS world is back in balance.

We exit, scoot down the hall, smack the elevator button and see the hall security video cameras, not a worry in the world.

For after Kings crew is done sawing, packing, sweeping, mopping up the trash, no one will ever know zip, about zip.

Which of course is how Moi saw it all going down from the get go.

For after all, I am Me, Jane, Vegas PI.

XXX

We did go dancing, had to burn the adrenaline, neurons off.

We ended up at Taboo, another Disco maddening, throbbing lights, blaring music. The usual bacchanal orgy all fueled by drugs, alcohol, hormones, and testosterone.

We had a hoot, ME, of course being the center of all worlds.

JUST KIDDING. Well not really, I’m bloody unbalanced, never said I wasn’t.

The usual suspects were there, semi naked show girls, strippers, cock tail waitresses, young, young, everywhere. Lots a Metro Males, coiffed, plucked, deodorized, effeminate all playing their James Dean roles and me with the only stud in the bunch, my lovely and reborn hard again, black man, King.

I of course, went insane, dirty dancing, straddling Kings-knee.

There they we’re, miles of legs, heels, screaming, whooping, twirling all around. My arms whipped to the silver disco ball. I twirled like a whirly bird, King the man, holding me, letting me do my wild child thing, him grinning, sweat covering my bod, white mop drenched with all eyes on the golden girl.

It was my element, my town, and then about 2 AM, the plug got pulled. I had nothing left and found myself sitting in our private booth as King chatted up some scrumptious young blond thing at the bar and, then I fell asleep.

When I woke up I was nestled in Kings-arm’s. My arms we’re wrapped around his powerful skull, King holding my high heels.

Perfect, perfect style, old Hollywood, the crowd parting, the princess tired, the hero protecting her, carrying her to her carriage, all eyes on fragile me.

I was cognizant of some of it, sleepy time and, then in the limo and me hearing the quiet of the engine as we prowled back towards N. Las Vegas, an entirely different world.

I was happy.

Me, I was snuggled into King’s chest and my head nuzzling into the cleft of his neck, his power packed arms around my shoulder. It was in my tired mind, a perfect movie ending.

I felt safe, protected, knowing no one could hurt me ever again, here, there in my buddies arms, the full moon bathing us in moonlight, streaming though the open sun roof.

Parked in front of Chang’s, 3 AM, no gun shots, screams tonight, heels in my hands, King walking me to the door. He offers to take me up, you know, a kiss good night, white sheets under my pointed chin.

“No thanks King, sooooo tired, let’s chat manana. Love you.”

And, then a present. Oooh goody. I love presents.

King offs two fifty large on me, many C-notes.

I do not protest, he knows, I know that I deserve presents, no ribbons.

I hug the cash against my no tits, clutch too, open the security gate and layer a smasheroo kiss on King. He grins, respect, love, comradeship are in his black eyes.

I give him a toodle-doo, close the gate, tip toe barefoot up the stairs. I make the turn and lean against the wall.

There it is my world, bathed in golden light bulbs from my old lamps, and a translucent blue glow from Stella and Gumbos fish tank.

The full moon is softly kissing my loft through the skylights, soft, a citrine world that I have created, me knowing now, especially now how dear it is all to me.

Then I hear this tick, tick, tick sound and see this little golden ball of fur racing across the loft. I drop the clutch, dough, heels to the pine, just in time, for she’s air born, a hurtling topaz missile of love.

Bijou hits my arms, does the flop, twists up, and in a panic of love, covers my face with kisses, pink lapping tongue, chirps, yips, sweet growls, frantic, wild, filled with love, just so glad to see me, as I am her.

I hold her dear. This is what pure and unequivocal love is, and now I have someone that loves me, is glad to see me, every time, every moment, and I love her.

I Kiss her all over, place her to the floor. She does circles around me, she wants something.

BINGO, the bathroom.

Girls and their bathrooms.

So I walk across my loft, to her bed, my bed, see no poop and sit on the side of the bed. She leaps onto my lap. I hold her tight. She is safe, I am safe. We are very lucky girls.

“No Poop, Huh...OK just a sec...Let me get comfy...”

“Pant’ Pant, Pant, Pant”...Dog speak, I swear she’s smiling.

I stand and let that little black dress spill to my ankles, nude, I’m feeling good.

I move to my armoire, throw on a extra large black hoodie, old worn, down to my knees Have my movie, Sports Center Tvoed for later. I’m so comfy. I look at my clutch, wonder about my Beretta. I’m tired of death, blood, pain, deceit, hoodlums and gutter snipes. Looking at Bijou, I get smile. I smile back.

I put on my fav and faded old blue Levis, the ones with the holes on their knees.

I have forgiven the color blue.

I reach down, and find my Minnie Mouse slippers, the ones with the big mouse ears on them. Love those, fur lined, slip them on.

I grab my Zippo, a smoke, move across the loft, check on Gumbo and Stella and their kid, Blanche, turn the page.

I think their snuggling, maybe sleeping. Do they sleep? Got to Google that later.

Sooo, down the stairs girl friends go.

“Click, click, click.”

I am starting to love those tiny little sounds, her foot prints.

She is my sister, I love her, never had one before.

Out the door, I smile as Bijou clips over to a private corner, near a dumpster.

I do not watch for she needs her privacy. She does her business, looks at me. I get it. She digs my respect as she runs around the alley, sniffing everywhere.

Then, after a few clock ticks, she moves to my feet, lays down next to me. I smile and smoke, look at the moon, a yellow globe that is telling me that there perhaps is a new meaning to my life.

Telling me and I have a family now, that I love, and they love me.

I am so glad to be alive, maybe there’s a new softness in the world, the Vegas World, my world.

Jane. Vegas PI’s world.

XXX

To be continued.