by Wol-vriey
***
Gorgeous Wong wasn’t ugly—just plain. Her eyes were pretty, but her lips were thin, neutralizing their effect. In addition, her nose was just a little too flat, making her face seem spread out.
She was also skinny, with breasts the size of golf balls, and had almost no buttocks at all.
Her nickname ‘Gorgeous’ was a translation of her birth name, Mei. Her parents had hoped the name would bring her the fortune her looks clearly wouldn’t.
Gorgeous made absolutely no money whatever for Sookie—no one ever hired her.
And despite her modest, virginal demeanor, Gorgeous Wong was a bundle of trouble. Particularly, she was always getting into fights.
Sookie mentally rolled her eyes at the memory of when she’d gone missing.
Investigating her kidnapping, Malone discovered that Gorgeous hadn’t been abducted by triads who wanted to force her aunt to pay protection money, nor even by rapists.
No, Gorgeous had been kidnapped simply to teach her a lesson.
A gang of Chinese boys—fellow kung fu students whom she was always fighting with and beating up—had gassed Gorgeous and locked her (along with enough food and drink for three months) in an empty shipping container in Foster’s Wharf. They’d warned her not to make any noise and alert dinos to her presence and that they’d let her out when she’d learnt some manners.
Sookie still regretted Malone freeing her niece from confinement before she’d learn her lesson. What fucking use is hooker who beating up men?
But . . . Gorgeous was family and couldn’t be fired. So Sookie was grateful for this opportunity to offload her somewhere.
***
Herbie nodded at the thin Chinese girl in her neat white kung fu getup.
Gorgeous Wong bowed. “I’m honored to serve you, Mr. Herbie.”
Unlike her aunt, Gorgeous had been born in the USA. She spoke impeccable unaccented English.
Herbie forced a smile. He pointed to a chair.
He scrutinized Gorgeous while she demurely stared at the floor. She sat prim and proper, hands crossed in her lap, her knees and heels together.
Shit, Herbie thought. She looks like a secretary, not a hooker.
Sighing, he turned to Sookie. “Thanks, Sookie, you’re a real friend. What’cha call that special technique of hers again?”
Sookie rose to leave. Her one-color green eyes and heavy lips made her look vampiric in the shaded light. “‘Dragon grip pussy clench,’” she said, putting her dark shades back on. “It excruciating tight wonderful vagina pleasure for gentleman customer. When cum, not know if he live or die.”
She waved and left.
Herbie sat morosely, by stages growing depressed. Occasionally he stared at Gorgeous who smiled brightly back. Seeing her just increased his dejection at Posh deserting him. Shit! No way is Miss Homely here going to make me any money.
“Look,” he told her after a bit, “make yourself at home. I’m off to see my brother.”
Gorgeous nodded. “Is there anything you want me to do before you get back, Mr. Herbie?” Gorgeous wanted to please. She didn’t get along with her aunt and was delighted to be away from her.
Herbie thought, then frowned. “Yes, there is. Try not to run away too.”
CHAPTER 22
Blondie & Stacy
Sugar Ray’s Bar was situated at the Bedford Street/Kingston Street intersection, tucked just inside The Grid’s south end. From its front entrance one could see, eighty yards away, the final steel pillars that propped up Boston’s wiven shield, and down beyond that, Chinatown.
The bar owner, Sugar Ray Badass, was a huge bald negro who’d once almost been world heavyweight boxing champion.
He was a calm man, silently powerful behind a ready smile. His reputation was more than enough to keep the peace in his establishment.
No one messed up in Sugar Ray’s.
***
Drinks in hand, the two women sat at a shadowed table in Sugar Ray’s.
Both women’s eyes surveyed the men walking into the bar.
Several patrons had already made eyes at the watching pair, but been pointedly ignored.
“Damn carpet lickers,” the last muttered under his breath.
“No one yet, Blondie,” Stacy said. “This place is the pits.”
Stacy was a redhead. She was short and pretty, but thin-lipped and looked unpleasant.
Her companion checked her watch, then laughed. “You’re so fucking impatient,” she said. “Give it time, baby. It’s still midafternoon. Lots of time for someone cute to show up.
Blondie was middle-aged and beautiful, full-lipped, and generously endowed breast-wise. Her satiny yellow curls flowed to below her shoulders. Unlike Stacy, she was gregarious, and had a warm smile. There was steel concealed in her smile, but it wasn’t obvious.
The bar door swung open. A fat dark-haired guy made his way over to the bar, plumped his ass down on a stool.
Blondie watched him with anger. “Shit!” she swore, “another fucking unsuitable. The guy looks like a dressed-up pig.” Her scowl deepened. “Where the hell are all the cuties?”
The door swung open again.
Stacy’s eyes brightened. “Him, let’s do him!” she whispered excitedly.
Blondie looked up from her glass of wine. She regarded both new entrants with mixed interest. “Which one? Bulldog-face, or hangdog-expression?”
“Hangdog. Isn’t he cute? So, so cute?”
Blondie regarded Herbie Stanton with interest, as he and his brother made their way to a table and signaled a black waitress.
“Yeah, he is rather handsome,” she said, “in a spineless, weasely kind of way. He needs to lighten up though—he looks like he just lost his job.”
“Or his wife,” Stacy said. “Oh, Blondie, I’d so love to comfort him.” She stared pleadingly at Blondie, fluttering her eyelashes little-girl-style. “Let’s do him, pleeeaaaseee!”
Blondie laughed. “Okay. It’s impossible to refuse you anything you’ve set your mind on anyway. So Hangdog here’s a definite prospect.” She reached over and squeezed Stacy’s hand. “But simmer down, girl. There’s sure to be lots of other men, real hunks, coming through the door shortly.”
Stacy shook her head. “Not for me.” Elbows on table, chin in palms, she gazed dreamily at the oblivious Herbie Stanton. “I think I’ve fallen in love.”
***
Across from the two women, Herbie was suffering a major crisis.
“She just fucking up and left, Bully. All the thanks I get for picking her ass off the street and keeping a roof over her head.”
Bulldog ran a finger through his thick brown hair. Like his name suggested he was ugly as a pile of fresh shit.
He also had a huge dent in the left side of head where he’d been hit with a lead pipe and left for dead a year ago.
The dent had scrambled Bulldog’s brains. He’d been unable to reason clearly since then. Except to poop and pee, Bulldog now counted on Herbie to do most of his thinking for him.
“Yeah, Herb,” he said. “I mean that’s ingratitude for ya. You even kept her ass full of all kinds of dicks—ensured she made full use of her woman’s right to get fucked regularly.”
Herbie glared at his younger brother. Despite its benefits, Bulldog’s dimwittedness was often irritating. “Don’t fucking make jokes about this.”
Bulldog look surprised. He raised both hands in apology.
“Sorry, Herb. But I ain’t joking. Ain’t that what those women’s groups used to complain about? A woman’s right to fuck and make babies?”
Herbie smiled for the first time since discovering Posh had run away.
“It’s campaign, Bully, not complain—”
“Seems the same to me, campaigning is complaining isn’t it?”
“—And it was for their right to abort babies, not to fuck and make ‘em.”
Bulldog scratched his wrinkled forehead. He took a sip of his beer. “Still seems one and the same complaint to me. I mean if t
hey don’t have a right to fuck and make babies, there’s no babies to abort, right?”
Herbie winced. Bulldog’s logic was too illogical for Herbie. It gave him a headache.
“You’re right, Bully,” he said tiredly. “But that’s neither here nor there—it doesn’t help me in the least to get my runaway slut back, does it?”
The booze was getting into him now, turning his depression into anger.
“Way I see it,” Bulldog said. “You say you know where she is, right? I say we head over there now, I’ll bust the sumbitch’s head in and take Posh back. Your hooker’s your property, Herb. That’s stealing! And besides, Posh even took your fucking car! We can’t stand for that! Imagine it—your property stealing your property!”
“Lower your voice,” Herbie whispered. “We’re in a bar, for God’s sake.”
Posh stealing his prized Lincoln irked Herbie greatly. Now that’s a pimpmobile! Old fucking gold—not like all these modern Japanese fiberglass cars! And Posh had run off with it.
Looking over Bulldog’s shoulder, Herbie now noticed the blonde and redhead seated opposite them. The redhead looked away when he looked their way, like she’d been staring at him.
He looked both women over, while they affected not to notice his staring.
Both were pretty, but the oldish blonde was more his style, with that flowing hair, luscious lips and those breasts . . . Wow! Herbie could just imagine what her nipples would feel like between his lips.
He remembered he was talking to his brother, pulled his eyes down from Blondie’s breasts. “It’s not that simple, Bully. We can’t just break in and take her.”
Bulldog looked confused. “This is the part I don’t get, Herb—why isn’t it simple? And why won’t you tell me who’s got her?” His face tightened with anger. “Just tell me the bastard’s name and I’ll bash his head in.”
Herbie smiled. Not this time you won’t. Finding out that Posh had fled to Malone had complicated issues greatly.
Herbie wasn’t about taking on Malone without a guaranteed edge. Possibly not at all. The guy’s reputation was practically superhuman badass.
Herbie also knew Bulldog was scared shitless of Malone. If his brother got even the slightest whiff that Malone was involved in Posh’s disappearance, he’d be out the back door faster than Herbie could flush a turd.
“Have you heard the expression ‘patience is golden,’ Bully?”
Bulldog polished off his beer then nodded.
Herbie’s eyes thinned to pissed-off slits. “This guy who’s got Posh is too fucking tough to tackle at the moment. So we wait, bide our time—”
“Yeah, but who the fucking hell is it?”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it!” Herbie snapped in a harsh whisper. “Just do what I tell you, like you always do. The one thing I ain’t having is you rushing off hotheaded and screwing this up for me, okay?”
Bulldog nodded. “Sorry, Herb. I didn’t mean—”
Herbie jabbed a finger at him. “It’s okay—don’t sweat it. Just wait till I tell you we’re good to go on this one. No one fucking cheats me and gets away with it.” He glared at Bulldog. “You know that, don’t you?”
Bulldog gulped nervously. “Sure, Herb. No one messes with you, ‘cos I got your back.”
Herbie smiled now. “Yeah, no one messes with us. We’re getting that bitch Posh back. How fucking dare she run out on us?”
Bulldog called for fresh beers.
Herbie now turned his attention back to the women opposite. Neither turned away this time. The pruny redhead gave him the eye. The blonde smiled coolly. Herbie wondered if they were hookers. He eyed the blonde’s breasts again. Oh, mama!
The black waitress delivered their beers.
Herbie paid, then, pointing with his chin, said: “Serve a bottle of red wine to those pretty ladies over there. Tell them it’s from me and my brother.”
“Who’s that for?” Bulldog asked, after the waitress had left.
“Look over your shoulder, Bully,” Herbie said. “I see there two possible replacements for our runaway Posh.”
Bulldog looked, then turned back and nodded. “Wow, Herbie they’se pretty. Real pretty.”
Herbie waited till his order of wine was delivered to Blondie and Stacy. Both women waved at him, all smiles now.
“Our gift has been accepted,” he told Bulldog, getting to his feet. “Come on, let’s go and introduce ourselves to our new girlfriends.”
CHAPTER 23
Posh
Oh my God, no!
Posh gaped at her reflection in shocked horror.
With Malone not returning, and herself unable to go anywhere till he did show, she’d slept till now, late afternoon.
A feverish feeling (which she’d put down to strenuous over-fucking) had encouraged her to sleep her fatigue off. She’d only woken up now to get a drink of water and take a pee.
And then she’d looked in the bathroom mirror.
Now naked in front of the mirror, she stood frozen in shock.
Fear flooded her. There was no doubt about it at all.
Her body was covered with the same shit-colored swellings that Oswald Watkins had.
“I’ve picked up his fucking war infection!” she whispered to herself. “The sick bastard fucking lied to me! He lied to me! He is contagious!”
Posh stood motionless before the mirror for an eternity before daring to touch herself.
The bumps didn’t hurt, no. They were soft to the touch, however, like they were full of pus.
And they’re all over me—my face, my breasts, belly, my legs—everywhere. Posh was as disgusted as she was scared. Shit, there’s even one covering my right nipple.
And this change clearly happened overnight. When Sookie called yesterday she never said I looked odd.
Terrified as to what the result would be, Posh pinched the crusty edge of a tan protuberance on the outside of her left breast. She pulled it up. With the barest sensation of pain, the entire ‘bruise’ separated from her body in a six-inch-long strip of skin that ripped down across her rib cage.
Posh stared at it aghast. The strip of removed skin was half an inch thick. She clearly made out the separations between the skin itself and the connective tissue and fatty layers beneath it.
She turned her attention to the wound.
Where she’d removed the skin from was a trough of wet red flesh. White rib peeked through muscle that seemed no longer firmly attached to its bone supports.
Pink serum began trickling from the excavation. It ran down over her belly.
Posh fought down her urge to scream; to scream and keep on screaming till she lost her mind.
I’m fucked up, she realized with brutal conviction. Totally screwed for good.
She finally pulled herself away from the mirror. Carrying the sliver of removed skin like a gory prize, she returned to Malone’s bedroom, and began dressing.
While she dressed, Posh’s thoughts were black, like nightfall condensed into her head.
Herbie, she thought. That bastard has fucking ruined me with his greed. But, oh, oh no. I’m not about going down alone.
Posh was now too enraged/depressed to feel fear. Her single thought was to kill Herbie Stanton for what he’d done to her.
Fully dressed, she smiled coldly. Then she went to the wardrobe and got out a gun—Malone’s backup blaster—she’d noticed lying in back of it when hanging up her clothes.
She checked that the weapon had a full charge, then put it in her coat pocket.
Posh left the house and got into Herbie’s pimpmobile.
She drove off, looking for him so she could kill him.
CHAPTER 24
Herbie, Stacy, Blondie, & Bulldog
“Haven’t seen you ladies in here before,” Herbie said.
Blondie shrugged. “We’re new in town.”
“From Chicago,” Stacy added.
Herbie raised an eyebrow. “What’s it like over there?”
Stacy pu
t down her empty wine glass. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Utterly terrible. Like you wouldn’t believe.”
Blondie scowled. “We’ve now got Nodrix.”
Bulldog leaned forward, ugly face perplexed. “What’s those?”
“Area 51 stuff. Aliens that the Lincoln administration caught and locked away. The dinos broke into Area 51, ate everyone and the aliens escaped. Now they fly around zapping people as revenge. The Vodiods that escaped from Guantanamo Bay are even worse.”
“Shit,” Bulldog said. “That’s fucking terrible.”
“No, bro,” Herbie said, “that’s worse than terrible.”
He signaled Sugar Ray to send over another bottle of wine. The hulking negro barman grinned white teeth and nodded.
“You’d have thought,” Herbie continued, “that making dragons and these Jurassic Park reptiles would be enough shit to shovel on the American people, but no—administrative assholes gotta add aliens to the mix.”
“I’d like to get my hands around that cad Jeff Lincoln’s neck and break it,” Bulldog said with deep feeling.
Blondie shuddered. The cretin looked mean and strong enough to do it too. “The dragons aren’t the government’s fault,” she said.
Herbie scowled. “Then who’s to blame?”
(Herbie had been out to the Boston harbor only once since the New Past began.
Even without the accompanying danger, that once was enough.
The sight of the monstrous thunder lizards wading offshore, with massive Ichthyosaurs swimming between them like reptile dolphins had unnerved him.
There’d been HUGE beetles in the sky, the sheer massiveness of the creatures defying conception. Herbie had watched one of them lay a skyscraper on India Wharf, then he’d split.
Washington has to be responsible for this mess, he’d thought, shifting gears whilst driving off.)
“Shit like this doesn’t just happen,” Herbie said.
“This shit did,” Blondie retorted with a creamy smile. “Deal with it, man.” She decided she liked Herbie. Nice face with sexy lips; hopefully a nice tight backside too.