by Paul Slatter
Fuck, the guy was hot, she thought, smoking hot. No wonder Slave had picked him up like they had. That broken nose and chiselled looks and attitude, staying silent she stared at him as he looked back, chomping on the toast he was stuffing into his mouth and hadn’t offered to her, but he was offering her something else and it would taste better than what he was eating. She moved her legs and could feel herself wet inside, her irrational thinking taking over like it always did whenever she got horny. She wanted him, who cared what happened after. All she wanted him to do was take her to his room downstairs or wherever it was in this cave of a home and for him to go Neanderthal on her—pin her down and make her come over and over. And as she did she could look up at him with his broken nose and black eye and scream and bite her top lip hard the way she did so that it made her pussy tingle even more.
And then, without regard for her career or consequences for the future, she said, “Yeah come on then, take me to your room and fuck me hard.”
Fuck me, thought Dan, he hadn’t been expecting that. Usually it was something more like his glass of Coca-Cola thrown in his face. What was he supposed to do now? This chick in her forties wanting him to plow it home, getting herself all hot and bothered because she keeps looking down at the carrot he’d found in the fridge and stuck down his jeans.
She was hot though and really did kind of look like his mum, which was a turn on in itself. Her tits hanging out and her skirt short enough to be sexy, her legs all tanned and smooth. He stared at her. She was toned, nice flat stomach, nice legs, sexy shoes everything, wow.
Now she was leaning in on him and he could feel her hand on his knee and, as she got closer, he smelled her perfume, her soft hair touching his face as she got closer and whispered into his ear, “Fuck me right now.” Then she moved her head back and pushed her lips against his, feeling them on his, tasting her lipstick as he felt himself getting hard as she pushed her tongue inside his mouth, which still had remnants of the peanut butter and marmalade sandwich he’d just wolfed down. Pulling back, he looked at her face closely, seeing the minute soft womanly hairs around her cheeks, then she looked down to his crotch and said, “Oh my God. You’ve got two cocks.”
And Dan, thinking quickly, said, “Yeah I was born like that.”
Gill Banton began to breathe deeply, her heart beginning to race more than she’d felt it do in a long time. She’d heard about this phenomena in men, but had always thought it was a myth, and now she had one right here in front of her. No wonder Marsha was up here seeking him out and getting herself in such a mess in the papers like she had. Now it all made sense.
She leaned in again, this time trailing her hand along his leg, moving it slowly towards his crotch, savoring the moment. Saying to him as she did, “Fuck me with your two cocks, fuck me with your two cocks.”
She reached the top, feeling the big one first, which was rock hard, and then the other which was now almost the same and jerking, almost pumping beneath his denim. Suddenly she needed this man to take her, needed to feel him above her, holding her, taking her. Pushing herself back, she pulled her skirt up around her waist, ripped her knickers down, and laid herself out across the kitchen table. She closed her eyes and felt her breasts, touching them uncontrollably, pulling them from her bra and squeezing her nipples beneath her slight and tender hands—feeling the shock waves run down to her groin as she did. She wanted him, wanted him to come to her with his two cocks and let him do to her something she’d never experienced before in her life.
Unable to resist herself, she moved her hand down and felt her own moistness and as soon as she did, she came, gasping as she felt her fingers rubbing slowly up and down, the sensation of her hardness stuck between her fingers, she called out, “Fuck me BlueBoy, come and fuck me with your two cocks.”
And opening her eyes, she looked up to see Charles Chuck Chendrill and Dan’s mum standing in the kitchen watching her and as quick as a flash, she was up off the table in one fluid motion, putting her tits away and pulling her skirt down, she stood and offering out her dry hand, said, “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Treadle, I’m Gill Banton of Banton Talent, up from Los Angeles and looking to represent your son.”
*******
Dan sat in his room downstairs listening to the muffled voices upstairs in the kitchen. As soon as Gill Banton, his potential talent agent up from L.A., had touched his dick, he’d come in his pants again. And now he was wondering if he’d be able to sneak his other cock back into the fridge before his mother noticed it was gone and started asking more questions.
He’d heard the Aston Martin pull up outside at the same time as his body had betrayed him and he’d come in his pants for the second time that week. Fuck, this was becoming a problem. Not least because for the first time in his life, women were throwing themselves at him, especially this crazy bitch now talking to his mother up in the kitchen.
He leaned back on his bed and began to laugh to himself. God, he would have paid to see his Mum’s face on that one, and Chendrill’s. He could imagine him there in his fancy shirt trying to look cool. Her on the table with her legs spread, saying, ‘fuck me BlueBoy.’ The stupid cow couldn’t even remember his name. What the fuck was that all about? My God, if he was going to sign with anyone at the moment, Patrick seemed to be the best bet, at least he wouldn’t have to be wary of being eaten by a cougar every minute of the day—even if she was hot.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Malcolm Strong was getting worse, his hands beginning to shake every time his phone rang, looking over his shoulder every minute while he was out, waiting for the guy with the English accent who wore a turban to appear. Things weren’t getting any better at home either, his wife becoming more distant, more interested in her phone or the TV. Sex was now a thing of the past, not even a sniff. Lying there in their matrimonial bed, she’d play with her phone and go to sleep without a word.
He had it all worked out what he was going to say to the Indian next time he called. He’d give him the made-up info he wanted about the guy called Chendrill and he’d say, ‘I’ve done this and I’ll let your package through and if you come near me again after that then I’m going to the cops and fuck what happens next. I’d rather go to prison than live my life like this. So, go fuck yourself!’
He’d say it just like that as well, hard and firm, let the guy know it’s time to fuck off and leave him be.
But he’d said that before and built himself up for the fight with the guy, but when it came down to it, the humiliation of it all scared him. The photos of him with his eyes closed getting blown in a shitty alley by the skanky whores he had been letting into his car and down into his pants, who let him into their panties—if they were wearing any—and touch their bruised, skinny legs and scabby faces and small dresses that turned him on like they did. He was in a mess, but he’d get out of it. This time he’d tell the guy to fuck off. He would. This time he really would. He’d say, ‘here’s enough on some other guy for you to work with, go work with this man Chendrill there’s enough on him for you to leave me alone so do it and let me get on with my life,’ and then once he was done, he’d move to the other side of the country and never come back to this place with its mountains and sea and its gay guys and girls and those people who dressed up their dogs. They could all go hang.
Rann got the package of info from his computer courtesy of an anonymous email account and looked at it for a while without getting up. His first instinct was to get straight on the phone and say, ‘You cunt Chendrill, you think those two kicks to the throat were bad, then wait till your friends see this shit I’ve dug up on you.’
But there was something wrong. A guy who did the things that were written down in front of him didn’t walk about dressed as a parrot. They lived in the darkness blending themselves into world and no one ever saw them. The two did not match up. But you couldn’t write it off; some people were bold strutting about out there without fear. He picked up his mobile phone and dialed Chendrill. When he answered, he said, �
�Did you have a good holiday back in that prison in 1994?”
And Chendrill said nothing. Nothing, like Rann had been expecting anyway. What he did say, though, was, “If you don’t fuck off and leave us all alone then you’ll never get a chance to see or use any of them pills you’re bringing in from Asia.”
Now it was Rann’s turn to go silent. Fuck, how did he know about that, no one here knew what he was up to—no one alive now that is, except Malcolm Strong. His mouth went dry now. This guy had turned it around on him. He was about to accuse the man for doing time for child offenses. He’d said nothing and not given a shit about 1994—he hadn’t even balked like he himself did now. Not fucking about anymore, he said, “Stay away from that shit. Don’t go near there if you know what’s good for you.”
“You want me to stay away like Rasheed didn’t? You going to kill me too, Rann? Or was that what you were trying to do outside the restaurant, trying to close my throat? One kick on either side then the third straight in front, crush my Adams apple. How’re your balls, though, still hurting?”
Rann stayed quiet. The guy was right; the third blow could have killed him had it hit home and connected like the first two had. He hadn’t thought of that at the time, but when he’d seen him his rage took over for a second—the blow in the nuts snapping him out of it. Then he heard Chendrill say, “If you’re interested in what I was doing in 1994, pop along to the Vancouver Police department because that’s where I was back then, ask them what I was doing, I’m sure they’d be interested in talking to you.”
Then he said, “Maybe though I’ll call them for you and speak to the drug squad, give them your name and address, you can explain to them what you’ve been doing while you were hanging out in the Far East over the last few months.”
And with that Chendrill hung up.
Rann stared at the small phone lying there in the palm of his hand, his thick silver Indian bangle the same color as its rim.
The fucker was turning it around on him now. Was he bluffing? He couldn’t tell. Could he take a chance? How much did he know about Thailand? He hadn’t mentioned the country—just said Asia. But he knew. He was holding the place back as another card to play later, same as he would.
The Irishman dying was a secret. No one knew he was there when the guy must have slipped and fell, except the wife, but where was she? Selling her ass and his hard-on pills some place in Bangkok now, no doubt, or in another brothel somewhere like it.
He had never seen her or the friend he’d fucked in the ass along with her again. He’d looked yeah, but not found. The main problem he’d had was he was back to square one, was five grand down to boot, and had two thousand odd packets of hard-on pills on the missing list.
The only lead he’d had was the pharmacist, but where was he? The Irishman’s wife had gone down to pick them up, he’d said. ‘Gone down,’ that means southern Thailand, ‘to see her family’—no hope there. ‘The monkeys all over the place,’ that was a lead and the only one he had. He asked around where could he see the monkeys, everywhere he was told, Chiang Mai, especially up north in the mountains.
“Naa not the mountains, in the city?”
It had taken a week of asking before he found the answer he was looking for. A group of German tourists staying at the hotel were upset about one of them getting a bite on the leg from a monkey when they were visiting the old temples at the edge of the city. Rann had heard the German man had come out of a shop and the monkey had come from behind and ripped the plastic bag open spilling the goods all over the road. He’d lashed out kicking it and as he did others came at him, jumping off the shop awnings and in a pack, all got around him snarling.
“Where’s this place?” Rann had asked as he carried on about how he loved temples, especially old ones where monkeys sometimes lived.
“Phetchaburi City,” the German had said. “You don’t want to go there, they will bite you if you are on your own, they can be dangerous,” the German had warned, standing there in his clean white shorts.
So can I, Rann thought, so can I.
******
He got off the train and was stared at by almost everyone as he did. His face darker now and his turban bright white in the sun. It had been a slow journey, passing through the mountains, moving from the city through the suburbs and out into the real Thailand—away from the whores and the packs of whites roaming the red-light districts hunting pussy.
He called over a Tuk-Tuk taxi and said to the driver, who didn’t understand, “Show me the monkeys in the street.” Half an hour later, he was there standing in a newly built square with its fountains flowing, its paving stones reflecting brilliant light into his eyes as the sun beat down. Fuck, it was hot here, he thought, his head itchy. Above him on the telephone wires monkeys roamed, crossing the roads with ease, balancing like trapeze artists without the net or the crowd to woo them on, just their tails straight and high in the air keeping them centered. He looked around. They were in the trees across the road, on top of the shops in amongst the people as though that’s just how it was meant to be.
He walked around looking for a pharmacy on the edge of the town, wherever the little fuckers—as the Irishman had liked to call them—were. Crossing one street, then another, food markets on the edge of the road, motorbikes everywhere, the place full to the brim with people, but none of them white and only one guy in a turban.
He turned a corner and waited, looking up at the side of the buildings some four stories high. There were monkeys all along the eaves, living in groups or families, not harming anyone, just getting along eating fruit left out by locals and squabbling amongst themselves.
The German must have got it around here, he thought, got tough with a wild animal a third of his size and got his ass kicked by its mates. Then he saw him—a white guy staring at him from across the road. He watched as the guy stepped out into the road, moved casually through the passing motorbikes and cars, meeting him on the other side, and said in a strong Kiwi accent, “I’ve been wondering if you’d show up.”
******
They sat down in a coffee shop along the way and watched the traffic pass by with three, four, even five people at a time squashed onto a scooter. The Kiwi, older than he looked, said, “I met him a few times and I was surprised to hear he’d died.”
“Yeah tell me about it. It took me a few days to discover the same thing. Maybe you heard about it before I did. I thought the guy had done a runner with my money.”
The Kiwi went by the name of John, John Smith, and from what Rann could work out with a name like that, he was in hiding. He was a pharmacist from New Zealand and that’s about all Rann could gather from the questions he asked. The guy was cool and pleasant, accepting of others and cultures and about a million miles away from the piece of shit Irishman who they were both pretending to mourn.
From what he’d heard, the man had been found dead at the bottom of the stairs stinking of booze and within 24 hrs, he was in a box in the hull of the first plane back to Dublin.
“No enquiry?”
The Kiwi looked at him.
“Why, should there be?”
Rann shook his head and stared at the table for a moment, then said, “No, he was a drunk. I spent three days waiting for him at the place we’d been meeting until the barman told me he was dead. Usually there’s an enquiry though, ain’t there?”
The Kiwi shook his head. “Not here, not if a drunken idiot falls down the stairs there’s not, if he’s shot or hacked to death or has his dick cut off in the night and bleeds to death, then yes. But for him, no.”
“His what cut off?”
“His dick. They’ll do that here, the girls, if you fuck with them and they get jealous.”
“Really?”
“Yep, be careful, my friend. I’ve seen it, they’ll do it.”
“I’m not here for that, I’m here for—” And the Kiwi, stopping him in his tracks, placed a packet of his tablets on the table. And said with a smile, “These?”
>
They went back to his place, a small house at the side of the road in amongst others in what looked to Rann like an alley. The place was nice, Monkeys along the walls and on the rooftops, but not pissing and shitting and fucking like the Irishman had said, just watching.
The man had a Thai wife and a small kid of mixed race and a machine out back that produced any form of pill you wanted, as long as you laid it all out correctly.
And staring at it the Kiwi said, “When I left Auckland, this is all I brought with me.”
Stole it, Rann thought, when you got the hell out of dodge the same way he’d got the hell out of London a few years back when the police started to sniff around. He said, “If you know what you’re doing, I’m sure it’s great.”
“Yeah that helps.” Then the Kiwi said to him, “Listen Rann, I’m a straight shooter, I can’t get back the tablets you’ve lost since Paddy passed on and I can deal direct with you if you want, but the money will have to stay the same.”
“Which was?”
“Sixty cents US a packet of 6 x 2.5 mg Sildenafil mixed with caffeine and glucose and some herbs of my own all stamped accordingly, just as I showed you.”
Rann looked at him confused. Then said, “Herbs?”
The Kiwi replied, “Yeah, just some local herbs I’ve found that do the trick thrown in.”
Rann nodded, giving it some thought. What difference did it make, the product worked, he couldn’t deny that. He said, “What about paying off the police?”
“Why?”
“You don’t have to?”
The Kiwi nodded and said, “Yeah, of course, but that’s all factored in and it’s done bi-yearly. It doesn’t affect the deal Paddy, yourself, and I made.”