Rock Solid

by Paul Slatter

  Quickly, he got to his feet as the next blow came, this time to the other side of his throat. Fuck me, Chendrill thought, this guy was fast. Trying as hard as he could to breathe, knowing he was in trouble, he stood again. This time he could see where the guy was coming from, catching his silhouette in the light from the kitchen window as he came at him again, flying through the air for the third time. Standing straight this time and spinning, shielding his throat from the blow with his arm and bringing his other elbow in hard and fast into the man’s crotch, Chendrill felt the East Indian’s testicles crush themselves into his bony groin. He watched as Rann landed on one leg and backed away, the pain from the blow not quite hitting, but both of them knowing that in a few seconds it would.

  Still finding it hard to breathe, Chendrill went for the man again, feigning a head shot and sweeping the East Indian off his feet. Rann landed, but flipped up again just as quick. Chendrill knew now the first two hits weren’t cheap shots and hadn’t landed by luck. The guy was a trained fighter and a good one at that.

  He took a deep breath and prepared for the next assault, his left arm down protecting his broken ribs that now seemed to be causing more pain than when they were first broken. Then he said to the guy standing there in the darkness, all in black with his turban, “Why don’t you let this be it and we’ll call it quits.” But he could see it wasn’t going to be that easy.

  Then he heard the guy say back, his London accent coming through strong now, “You think that just cause I ripped your shirt, that’s going to be enough after you broke my computer over my head?”

  And knocked you out twice, Chendrill thought. He looked down quick seeing his shirt in the light from the window. It was ripped, his favorite one at that as well, the prick. Then he said, “So, what do you want to do so as we can both walk away?”

  “Tell that smarmy cunt in there he still owes me the $100,000 he promised. And tell the foul-mouthed fag he owes me an apology and the fucking Ferrari or he’ll be dealing with me and the tax man—and once that starts, it’ll ruin everyone’s Christmas.”

  Chendrill stood there wanting to get hold of him and end it, but he knew better. He’d been lucky the first couple of times catching him off guard, but not now, not here. The man was pumped up and ready for a fight, you could see that, his eyes looking vicious, the way he stood, ready to go. Not like the baker. This guy was good and fast and then suddenly, he wondered how the Gurkha would have dealt with him—that little fucker, as tough as nails, and deadly. It was an easy answer, the East Indian would be dead, no question. But Chendrill wasn’t Bahadur, and Bahadur wasn’t here to help as he had been previously, sorting out Chendrill’s fight for him and probably saving his life in the process. Chendrill said, “The tax situation’s sorted, so you can fuck off on that one and same goes for your apology as well. And Patrick no longer cares about the photos, so go fuck yourself on that one too.”

  Then he heard the East Indian say, “This ain’t over.” And he turned and walked away around to the front of the restaurant. Chendrill put his hand to his throat and felt the bruising from the kicks, both delivered with power and accuracy and designed no doubt to close the throat and leave him easy prey, gasping for breath. Had the third connected, it would have been lights out. But like he said, it ain’t over, and it wasn’t.

  He looked at his shirt, ripped now completely. Fuck and it had been a good one, Chendrill saving it for something special, like tonight or a new ride, both of which had come on the same day and now look at it. He reached into his pocket, the keys to Aston Martin still there.

  In under thirty minutes, he was back in the restaurant, the only clean shirt had been a white one with frills on the front given to him as a gift by his auntie years back; but in a strange way, it kind of fitted the car, so what the hell.

  Pulling up outside the restaurant he got out, blasted by the Paparazzi as he did. Reaching the restaurant, he moved past Patrick, still holding court, and from behind he put his arms around Sebastian and Mazzi and said jokingly, “Sorry I was gone so long. I felt as though the shirt I was wearing didn’t go with the car, so I went home and changed.”

  There was hope, Mazzi thought, as he watched Chendrill walk away, still in disbelief from what he’d said. The frilly top looked good on him for once, reminding him of one of those sexy flamenco dancers he liked to fuck whenever he got himself drunk down in the Baja. Turning, he said to Sebastian, “Your magic’s working dear, it really is. Now just stop him from staring at that slut’s tits and you’re halfway there.”

  Putting his hand on Dan’s shoulder, Chendrill sat down next to him, his ribs smarting again now as he sat and said, “You okay?”

  Dan answered, “Why don’t you ask my eye?”

  Fucking baby, Chendrill thought, so he said, “It’s simple, if you don’t like it, don’t steal.”

  He looked over to Marsha, playing with her hair, still being held captive in conversation by Patrick, making occasional glimpses towards Dan, who was still eating long after everyone else had stopped—apart from Marsha who had not even started. Then Dan said, “Who thumped you in the throat?”

  Chendrill stared at him, wondering how he knew, and asked simply, “Why do you ask?”

  “Because it’s swollen and I saw you standing out back squaring off against some guy in a turban.”

  “And what else did you see?”

  “He fucked up your shirt.”

  “Did anyone else here see?”

  Dan shook his head. Then said, “How can they, it’s impossible to get away from the guy off the back of the bus.”

  Chendrill looked over to Patrick, Buffy with him now, listening in great detail as he spoke. Marsha flipping her hair and looking good while she talked with Sebastian, who’d moved over to sit with her and was trying to hold her hand. Mazzi Hegan getting his camera out. Then he heard Dan say, “How come you keep getting beaten up all the time.”

  Chendrill shot him a look, saying, “Go look in the mirror and ask that question again to the guy staring back at you.”

  Then Dan said, “Yeah, you’re right. You were lucky; sometimes those guys carry hockey sticks, I got one looking for me, they can get nasty. The only one I know who keeps calm is the guy who drives this lot about, he’s cool and he keeps the lawn trim so he can sniff around mum.”

  Chendrill looked at him.

  “What do you mean sniff around mum?”

  Then Dan looked up, frowning, and changed the subject, “Something’s going down; I can feel it.” Chendrill looked around, hearing Dan say, “The gay guy’s got his camera out, and he’s got that look he gets when he’s about to start taking his photos, same as he did that night in his apartment when he caught me in there eating his food.”

  Chendrill remembered it differently. Looking around, he could see that Marsha was starting to cry, her eyes tearing up.

  “What’s up with her?”

  Dan leaned back in his chair saying, “It’s because I’m not talking to her. She’s getting pissed off. She’s not used to that.”

  Then Chendrill asked him, “Yeah, what is it with you? Why are you sitting here like a dick and following me about when you’ve got her all gooey over you?”

  “It’s what Patrick told me to do. He’s my new manager. He said just keep away from her all night and when the shit hits the fan, look cool.”

  And then she came at him, Marsha there crying, moving towards Dan, Dan sitting there leaning back looking cool one foot up on a chair. Patrick moved himself quickly between them, his linen shirt open, holding his arms up feigning concern as Marsha wound up by a couple of hours’ worth of his subliminal messaging forgot herself and who she was, forgot to look good, forgot her supermodel status, which for the moment was broken down and gone. Then Patrick was grabbing her, holding her, comforting her as he moved himself and her towards Dan, who could care less. Patrick acting like a knight in shining armour holding off Dan with his free arm. And Dan going nowhere, as Patrick controlled the situation and
let Mazzi get the candid photos he needed for Sebastian to put Patrick on the map.

  Chapter Twenty

  Rann was feeling good now, about himself at least, walking back along the seawall watching the girls pass by on English Bay, and wondering whether he’d be able to pick one up if he stopped. Getting the big fucker in the throat twice and ripping his nice shirt had settled the score a bit, but his nuts had paid the price; and although the intense pain had gone, the bruising was still there. But that would pass, physical pain always did with him, the torment from insults and slights though left deep scars that manifested quickly into such hatred that there was little he could do to control the thoughts of revenge that always came with it.

  The Irishman had been the same, calling him a Paki straight off the bat, when he’d done nothing more than be polite. Ripping into him like he had for no reason other than that he was a racist married to a woman with the same colored skin as Rann himself had.

  They’d met again in a hotel bar after the bickering on the river had settled down and reached a deal. A dollar twenty-five for a packet of six Sildenafil 25 mg mixed with sugar and a bit of caffeine to give a bit of energy to whoever thought their luck was in.

  The Irishman was drinking whisky again, his wife with him dressed in a tight dress showing off her figure and legs. Rann wondered if her friend was going to show. The Irishman wasn’t calling him a Paki now and said he needed his advance. Rann said, “I’ll give you that tomorrow.”

  “Why not tonight?”

  He could, Rann thought, he had enough now after pulling the max out of two credit cards for the last couple of weeks and storing it away in the hotel safe, but the Irishman was shifty, so he asked, “How much advance we talking then?”

  “Fifty percent.”

  Fuck me, that’s just over twenty grand, Rann thought. The guy was such a prick he could go on a bender and drink or gamble away the lot and all he’d have to show for it was a box of tabs that were full of talcum powder. So, he offered him two thousand US right there and said, “This should get you started.”

  The Irishman had said, “I’m not a focking charity. You want me to finance the operation and put me life on the line, then you need to pay for that focking privilege, because I telling you I don’t deal with focking losers.”

  Here he goes again. Rann thought as the Irishman carried on saying.

  “I’ll set it all up for you’se, but I’ll need the fucking money to do so, so stop focking with me and being a cunt. Or like I said before I’ll be focking off, so don’t waste me focking time.”

  Rann stared at the man, his bald head red now from the outburst, trying to work out if the guy was straight. Fifty percent was enough to buy a house out here. He asked, “Why’d you need twenty grand right now, you going to go buy the shit right off the bat? I’ll give you five tonight.” He added, “And after I see what comes back I’ll start paying out more.”

  The first batch arrived four days later, the Irishman’s wife going off with the cash to where the monkeys run riot to get the stuff as requested, while her husband ran riot himself. Rann keeping close tabs on the guy, watching him as they sat in the clubs, drinking whisky and getting his dick sucked in the back, calling him a Paki again as Rann watched the girl painting hearts with the soap suds in the shower booth at the side of the stage.

  Then he saw the wife’s friend, her hair dyed blonde, her legs long toned and sexy, walking through the place, coming up and talking to Paddy. Paddy smiling, as she looked at Rann sitting there in his white turban and white shirt feeling good. The Irishman leaning in now, telling him his wife’s back and they should go and meet.

  They took a corner booth at the sports bar in Rann’s hotel, Rann sitting opposite the Irishman’s wife who looked like a monkey, giving him the look, her silk dress tight pushing her boobs up, her friend the Thai blond sitting next to him, her knee touching his, making him feel special.

  Digging into his pocket, the Irishman handed Rann a packet; he had two on him he said. Any more he’d get into grief if he was caught. Rann looked at them all sitting there in their little bubbles with the letters ‘RS’ printed across the top of each pill and the words ‘ROCK SOLID’ printed bold across the silver lined backing with ‘Herbal Supplement’ in small print along it’s base.

  “Try one,” the Irishman said. Rann sat there staring at the packet. The Irishman was right, he’d have to try the goods—this packet, and selected ones from the boxes when they started to arrive for real. Paddy carried on as he took another hit off his whisky.

  “Take a tablet, you cunt, you’ve paid for the focking things, haven’t you just? So focking use them, take this focking blonde bitch back and give her a screwing be Jesus man. If not her, the bitch in the shower you can’t keep your focking eyes off.”

  The Irishman said as he sat there, his eyes all glassy now. Listening to his new business partner saying, “I ain’t paying for it, it ain’t me.”

  The Irishman stared at him, surprised, saying, “Look at you all high and mighty, what makes you better than all the other people round here? I’ll buy the focking bitch for you if that’s what you want. You focking tight bastard.”

  Says the man drunk on the whisky I’ve been paying for all evening, Rann thought as he watched him nodding as he listened to his wife and her friend talking in Thai to each other as though he could understand what they were saying.

  Then he asked the Irishman, “Why’d you do that, pretending to be following what they’re saying in Thai, nodding your head and all that like you understand?”

  Reaching out, the Irishman grabbed his arm and held it tight, and said, “It lets ’em think I know what the fuck they’re saying so as they don’t try to fuck me over, ya focking idiot.”

  Rann looked back at him, the man’s eyes waterier than ever, celebrating his cut of the five grand he’d taken no doubt. Rann gave it some thought, staring at the girls, their long hair hanging straight down their slight backs. He said, “But if you knew what they were saying, you’d be talking with them, joining in, not sitting there like some guy who’s had his tongue ripped out. How do you know they ain’t calling you a dopey cunt for doing just that and you’re sitting there agreeing with them as they do.”

  Rann was right, the Irishman knew it right there and then, the reality of it all sinking in. He could see it in his eyes and without a word, he got up and left.

  Rann sat there and watched him go, then turning back to his wife, looked her straight in the eye and said, “What you doing wasting your life away hanging out with a cunt like that?”

  But the wife didn’t understand him and all she said back was, “Me—my friend like you. We like this.” As they both reached out gently touching the top of his turban with her long fingers. Then she said, “We want know, how long your hair?”

  And Rann said, “The only way you get to know that is if you sleep with me.”

  And that evening they’d come to him in his hotel room. The night long over with, the Irishman so drunk he could barely walk—saying to Rann as he’d walked out the hotel lobby how he was going to use his Rock Solid brand and fuck both the girls sideways, but he was a drunk and drunks just slept. And here they both were in his room, less than an hour later, as the drunken prick slept back at his place. Rann inquiring about where he was. Both saying, “He drunk!” Grinning and making sleeping gestures with their hands as they spoke and walked about the suite he now had that was bigger than his own place back home. The girls looking good in there, away from it all, parading about in their tight silk outfits and long legs, smiling at him calling him Mr. Rann and opening the mini bar without asking.

  They took him to the bedroom and laid him down, gently pulling off his turban and releasing his hair so it flowed down his back when they sat him up to see it’s length. Then they started to kiss him, both at the same time licking his face and eyes, taking it in turn to bite his lips as the other waited, both still fully clothed in their tight dresses kneeling on the king size bed. />
  The Irishman’s wife let go of him, pulled her tongue from his mouth and reached into her purse, bringing out a packet of his pills, popped three through the silver backed lining and dropped one into his mouth and said, “One you, one me, one my friend.”

  They took him to the shower and stripped him bare then stripped each other bare, then left him there on the outside looking in as they climbed in, turning on the jets, feeling each other, rubbing each other, kissing each other hard as though they were alone and it was what they liked to do. Rann watched, standing there naked, his ass propped against the sink, their asses and backs and stomachs and breasts pressed against the glass of the shower stall as the water sprayed around them as they soaped each other down all over and drew soap hearts on the glass just for him. Then it was his turn, in there with them both, the water pulling his hair— longer than theirs—towards the ground as his hands ran soap all over the women’s beautiful bodies, the blonde kissing him as the Irishman’s wife, who looked like a monkey, sucked away on his solid cock just as her husband had told him she liked to.

  They took him to the bed, laid him there still kissing him, taking it in turns to suck him. Then they turned and sat on him—one on his cock riding him as the other sat on his face. Rann felt himself solid inside each of them, his tongue digging deeper each time into them, feeling their juices flowing down into his mouth and across his cheeks as the other pressed down on him riding him hard, feeling his size within them as they bucked up and down on him, fucking him hard, feeling their tightness around his cock, hearing both each time he fucked them call out ‘Hoy, Hoy, Hoy,’ with every thrust. Then they made him fuck their asses, and that’s when they really got going. It went on and on, back and front and every which way Rann could imagine, for hours and hours until the sun came up.

  The new RS Rock Solid brand was working well.

  The first thing the Irishman said to him the next day was, “Have you tried out those tablets yet because I focking have and they work focking fine I can tell you that.”