IV
Go-Time at Paradise Acres:
BOTH VANESSA AND I were nothing more than just pawns in the Chess Master’s big game. I guess I’m the lucky one, because Chess Master has been correct on all counts. I do have everything my wicked little heart desires. I am here at Paradise Acres, as promised. I am fine and all should be right with my world. She did her part, playing the big board masterfully. All should be just ducky, but I’m telling you it is not. A young life should not have been sacrificed for an old one. Not for Chess Master, not even me. Hell, especially not me.
Here is the knife. Two quick jabs and a harsh rending and it will all be over. That is the answer. My guilt will finally be assuaged. I pick up the knife. I run the sharp tip along the underside of my jaw line. I press the knife to the beating artery. My eyes are still crying and my heart is still breaking. I suppose I am not the Tin Man, after all. I should do it and I intended to. I need to, but I stop just before plunging the knife in and opening up my neck. I hesitated, right at the moment of truth. I stop right there, considering everything anew.
I place the knife back down on my recliner-side table. I wipe my eyes dry. I’m not going to do it. I can’t kill myself, not today. I just recalled that today is Felatio Friday here at Paradise Acres, so I just can’t. I can’t kill myself today. Instead, I haul my ass out of the recliner. I make my way with a new grin to the hot shower and my ample supply of erectile dysfunction meds.
The hot, soft-water shower hits me with a thick spray. I’m thinking, whilst I soap up giving extra attention to my gray-wired groin. I’m scrubbing myself with so much vigor I am scraping my skin off. Tiny beads of blood bead up. I am having second thoughts about my second thoughts. I am thinking, perhaps, bleeding-out onto the floor is the right move to make. I can even go as far as sending a message back home to The Harbor, telling my son that he will never find Vanessa. If I told him what really happened to her, he would hate me, for sure. But maybe, just maybe, that knowledge would give him some closure. He can grieve and get on with his life. I wasn’t much of a father, or grandfather, as I recall. I have decided.
But, no! Because then I remember how my son was going to let me be thrown out, up-top, without any hesitation. Cash in the insurance on me and celebrate the extra domicile space. So, yeah, fuck it, I say. I’m not going to kill myself. Not today. Maybe tomorrow, though. Probably it will be tomorrow, Saturday.
Yeah, Suicide Saturday has a much nicer ring to it.
“Most gods throw dice, but Fate plays chess, and you don't find out til too late that he's been playing with two queens all along.”
- Terry Pratchett
…THE END
"KLONOPIN HELPS TO ALLEVIATE AND PREVENT PANIC ATTACKS. MUEY MAS MELLOW”
“KLONOPIN”
BUBBLEGUM WAS TRUSSED UP pretty like a nicely glazed holiday ham. She was an egg-layer in her late teens, a good bleeder, and lay on the examination bed. They were deep in the bowels of Hell’s Mouth Determining Hospital, far below where the real patients rested.
The Nocturne eyed her closely, savoring the sight and smell of her. He was the hombre de la hora and he was dying to get a taste of her. She was moaning softly, pulling oxygen in and waiting for them to give Bubblegum her snacks. She gyrated gently against her soft restraints.
“More,” she softly pleaded, “Make all the bad go away.”
The Good Doctor was on the other side of the subterranean exam room, nodding his head at her. She’ll get what’s coming to her, no worries. There are proper procedures to follow, my beaked beauty. There are no short cuts in good medicine. The Good Doctor pulled off his floor-length lab coat and wrapped it around a wire coat hanger. He loosened his tie, undid his shirt. The Good Doctor kicked off his loafers, unbuckling his belt as he walked toward Trudge and Drudge. He followed his huge, pharmaceutically enhanced erection. The conjoined twins stared out of three eyes, at some unknown subject at some unknown distance. The eyes were all the same washed out, milky-white, baby blues. The Good Doctor stopped in front of their cage, were they sat mewling and drooling out of their two mouths and sloppy down their one chin. He discarded the remainder of his outfit and slipped on a lovely gold sequined ball gown. He tied back his salt and pepper dreadlocks, tugged up his gown and stuck his pecker into Trudge’s mouth. Drudge’s over-sized tongue lapped sidewise at it. The Good Doctor took a silver pen casing and scratched at the dandruff on the twins’ aircraft carrier of a melded cranium. Their sparse hair coated with Uptown. He pushed and shoved the mostly white dandruff powder into a tiny pile. The Good Doctor bent at the waist and snorted it up. He put his head back inadvertently popping his cock out of Trudge’s suckling toothless mouth. The Uptown hit The Good Doctor like a Bolivian Bullet Train, lighting him up. He disappointed the twins when he stepped away. They had mistakenly thought it was dinner time. It was not. The Good Doctor’s ejaculation was being reserved for his sweet little furry pussy cat. He’ll get someone else to feed Trudge and Drudge. He stuck an index finger into Drudge’s ear. He retrieved a golden brown gold-piece, which smeared evenly and all around his fingertip.
The Good Doctor went back to where Bubblegum lay and Pilate waited with Juan and Mary. He sat a plush divan, close enough to get a good view to a kill. The Good Doctor whistled low and a tabby patterned cat came flouncing in. She came up to The Good Doctor, jumped up on his lap. The cat was a bit smaller than the average house cat. It was made from the DNA co-mingling of feline, monkey and The Good Doctor’s own dead wife. Sweet little furry pussy cat had an extra-long thick tail with a functional gripping appendage at the end. The tail mimicked a tree-swinging monkey’s, used for both gripping and for balance. The cat had a long, lithe body with finger indentions that match The Good Doctor’s grip perfectly. The face of the special clone had the whiskers and fur of a cat. But with human eyes of stunning emerald and the full, plump lips of The Good Doctor’s long lost loved one. Her lips peeled back to reveal sharp, feral teeth, but with a thick, flat and wide pink human tongue. The back of the cat’s throat had tonsils. Once you get past those, your cock would then be massaged by the cat’s gastro-intestinal tract which was the exact DNA image construct of the widower’s dead wife’s juicy twat. The inside temperature was an exact 38 degrees. The extra warmth was like kissing sunshine.
The Good Doctor tore a new little peek-a-boo in his gown and took out his rock steady. His cat put her mouth right on it and began lapping away at his cream dispenser. The Good Doctor gripped his pussy. He stroked himself while the kitty purred.
“Now this motherfucker knows how to party!”
“Get to it,” The Good Doctor ordered Mary, who stood right next to Bubblegum. “Let’s get this train rolling,” he stated. He moved kitty-kitty, bang-bang, up and down while he chewed on the Plata wax on his fingertip, getting that Uptown/Downtown cocktail just right.
Bubblegum’s eyes fluttered. Her dark lashes were moist, her beak slightly chapped and clacking; the breath sweet. Her talons stretched and clenched, her feather trail wet from wanting. She was beautiful. The hep-lock plunged into a vein in the back of her spine was new and bank. You could see it pulsing.
Mary tapped out bubbles and shot the girl into another world.
“Oh, blessed lord,” she moaned. When the Plata hit her hardest, her mumbling ceased and the whites of her eyes glowed, the pupils hidden, staring at herself. She turned rigid, flushed. Bubblegum was rushing her little balls off.
“What does she look like inside?”
Juan, hearing this second outburst, glances over to the corner, by the twins’ cage. Morbid stood there. His long, lank hair obscured most of his face and what you could see of it was covered with the wet shit from whence he came.
“I bet it’s so pretty in there,” mumbled Morbid.
“Fuck,” Juan muttered as low as he can. He doesn’t think anyone in this exam room could see his own personal Jesus. Nonetheless, Morbid’s timing was as rotten as usual. “Get back in here!” Juan mouthed at the shaking, red-ey
eballed man, standing and dripping foulness onto the stark white floor.
“Oh, all right,” Morbid pouted and began to slog his way over to where Juan already had his chinos tugged down to his ankles. He pulled apart his butt cheeks. Juan looked irritated over his shoulder at Morbid. The fuck was taking his sweet-ass time with it. Juan kept glaring at Morbid until he finally got over there. Juan, squatting, prepared for the pressure and Morbid seeing no chance at being allowed to stay out, parted the rectum of his provider and crawled up and in. Juan stood, gritting his teeth. He zipped up his pants and buttoned them just as Morbid settled down.
“You never let me have any fun.”
“Shut the fuck up, you,” Juan admonished. “Now stifle yourself. I want to watch this.” He turned back to the girl.
The girl’s breathing quickened, her skin turning bright red with the swell of oxygen pounding her shores.
Pilate smiled, then. He showed clearly teeth that lengthened as the grin spread wicked across his pale cold face. His eyes lit up all yellow and beastie-boy.
“Take her,” Mary told the Nocturne. She walked back to where her man, Juan stood. The Good Doctor was getting himself all lathered up. “She is all yours now.”
He bent to her. She was down for it, slick saucy and sweet.
For a moment, Pilate lost himself.
The blood, he thought, was sipping paradise.
)0(
JUAN AND MARY KNEW that Pilate was a Nocturne and they were smart enough to be afraid. Even still, they were dying to meet him. He had it all and they wanted in.
The couple sat in the bar sipping cocktails, just as they had done every evening for almost two weeks straight. They watched him appear. Just appear, man, right out of thin air over by the bartender.
The vampire handed the nigga a package which vanished beneath the bar top in an instant. It was exactly the same routine as the last three times. It wasn’t a pattern, exactly, not one that could be fingered, but they knew he would eventually show up because the dealer always did. He had to deliver his drugs. Juan and Mary knew if they were patient and waited long enough, Pilate would show.
The small, tightly wrapped package should be Plata if they knew their guy, which they did. The bartender, Steel Ovid, handed Pilate an envelope; cash, most certainly.
Pilate peered inside the envelope, checked the denominations, gauging the thickness. He didn’t count it though. The Nocturne didn’t need to. No one in their right mind would be stupid enough to buttfuck the drug dealing vampire. Even so, he looked like he could use the help of a couple of down motherfuckers like Juan and Mary. You know, to help with the day to day. The young couple just needed a way in.
Pilate looked at Steel Ovid. He said something to him that Juan couldn’t begin to hear across the distance of the bar and the slow, deep throb of the hardcore gangsta shit blasting forth from the DJ’s station nearby. Whatever it was must’ve scared the god-fuck outta the dude, cuz he stepped back and put his hands up in surrender and fear. The bartender backed up a quick two-step as Pilate leaned in, his long tightly curling hair spilling in a wave, obscuring his face. The menace in the gesture and what he must have said was full and uncomfortable like a dildo on a church pew.
Steel Ovid looked frightened bad, dropping his arms and folding his hands. He lowered his head, nodding in supplication, staring at his feet. His quaking Juan could see even from across the room. The nigga was a big dude, too, really more imposing than even the vampire.
Steel Ovid was a huge, heavily muscled albino. He had orange corn rows and was festooned with homemade prison ink. Professional tattoos displayed his fight wins. They were all over the place. He was a big and scary motherfucker who had a reputation for immense, visceral violence and the hair-triggered temper to go with it. Folks were scared of Steel Ovid as if he was a blood-drinker himself. But the poor, scared fuck was not and the nigga threatening him was.
“My God,” Mary said, watching the scene with Juan, “You ever see that big fucker scared before?”
“Steel Ovid, no way,” he replied, “Never. It’s interesting though.”
“For sure,” she spoke, took a quick sip of her cocktail. “We sure are looking at the right dealer to hook up with, that’s clear.”
Juan nodded his agreement, noting how Pilate stood straight and then in one quick movement, turned to look right at him.
“Fuck,” spat Juan, his own fear bursting within. That nigga’s eyes were yellow and backlit. They looked like a night hunting panther’s, glowing as they were at Juan.
Then, just like that, he disappeared. Juan turned quick to Mary. She was still glancing that way. He opened his mouth to speak and saw the color vanish from her face. Her lips quivered and her eyes grew wide. She then backed up and Juan turned to see.
“Fuck me!”
And there Pilate was, standing right in front of Juan and Mary’s table. Speechless, they stared at the vampire and he right back. And then, without a single word, Pilate dissolved on the spot, gone without a trace. There was some displacement of air, a slight cold whoosh and that was it.
It was a few moments before Juan and Mary could breathe and the bartender, they could see, was even more fucked up by his encounter than they. From where they were perched, they could see the Steel Ovid shaking like he had wet hair in a meat locker. He turned to the racks of liquor behind him, ignoring customers coming up. He poured himself three big shots of top shelf tequila, slugging them one after the other. When finished, he pinched the bridge of his nose, shut tight his eyes, leaned on the ledge running below the bottles. He collected himself with a final big breath and straightened up. Steel Ovid went back to work just as the Authorities came in to the bar.
The Occupying Indian Army made their way slowly through the bar. They were just making their presence known, being sure to stay away from the rooms in the back. The rooms in the back led down stairways to the bathrooms and other dangerous locales. The patrons hid any activity that was overtly illegal, but were otherwise left unmolested and to their own demise.
“Wonder what Pilate said to him,” Mary mused as several soldiers passed. She shook her lonely ice cubes at a passing barmaid and was ignored. “Just when I really need one, you bitch!” she yelled after and was still shunned. The Army Captain looked back at her. Mary just smiled at him, as sweetly as she could manage.
“Shit, girl,” Juan told her, “have mine.”
Juan handed her his mostly full drink. He was right. Mary knew she shouldn’t be drawing any attention their way. She shut her trap and threw the drink back. The Indian officer turned and kept moving away.
“Jesus, who knows what he said,” he muttered, thinking, getting them back on track. “I mean, shit, baby, motherfucker didn’t say even a word to us and I feel like climbing into a hole and pulling the earth in after me.”
“Exactly,” she agreed. “Whatcha think, Papi, should we just forget it?”
Juan wondered that very good point for a moment. Then he said: “He sure is scary, for real,” he told her, “but he’s our way in.” Mary nodded in agreement. “And once we are in,” Juan continued, “We won’t have to be afraid of anyone else, baby. Not in the whole of The Harbor.”
“We’d be the big-dick daddies, for sure.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, “If he doesn’t kill us first.”
“Still,” she said, “It’s clear he needs our help.”
Mary pushed Juan’s now empty glass away and reached into her purse. She pulled out and lit a thin, pre-rolled blunt of half tobacco and half homegrown Mary Jane.
“She’s my main thang…”
“He really shouldn’t even be here,” Juan mused, “it’s not safe.”
Mary pulled hard on the blunt and nodded.
“Shorties or even the two of us should be flippin’ shit, not the top dog.”
“That’s for sure,” she said, handing Juan the blunt. “How are we gonna hook him, though?” she asked.
Juan smoked and thought. He knocked a
sh on the already very dirty bar floor. “I was thinking of an offering.” Mary looked at him closely. “A gift,” he said.
“I don’t know,” she responded, taking back the blunt. “I mean, just giving the motherfucker a sandwich won’t do it,” she countered, “He can hunt whomever he wants, true?”
“Yeah, but he’s exposed and shouldn’t be.”
“Also true,” Mary agreed. “Oh, shit, wait,” she said, looking back to the bar. “There’s our answer.”
Juan turned to where she was looking and saw a young comely Plata fiend. The egg-layer moved slow and sexy through the crowd, touching many patrons, speaking slow with a naughty tongue lick of her beak. On and on she went, clucking down the bar, looking for a daddy.
Juan smiled at Mary’s idea. They looked at each other.
“But if we gave him the gift that keeps giving….” trailed Juan.
“We will need some cheese for the trap, baby,” Mary added, gesturing toward the now recovered bartender. “And I know where we can get it.”
Juan sucked on the blunt again, held it in. He loosed out a big plume and handed it back to Mary.
“Go and scoop her up,” Juan told her. “Ply the little coop-chick with drinks and a few lines. She doesn’t look like she shoots up.”
“No she doesn’t,” Mary agreed, “At least not yet.” It was impossible to tell that from where they sat, though. What with her little bent wings tucked up against her large succulent white meat breasts. She carried a small bejeweled clutch tight to her body.
“Yeah,” Juan nodded, seeing where she was going. “Now you’ll get to use some of your long dormant paramedical training, get her set up for the long haul.”
“Think she’ll go for it?” Mary asked, watching her get rejected and looking more and more anxious.” Egg-layers weren’t everyone’s cup of orange pekoe, apparently.
Pills-in-a-Little-Cup Page 11