Boston Posh

by Wol-vriey

  She could do without his brother though, with that apish frame, that face like dog shit someone had stepped in, those tiny piggy eyes under brows a Neanderthal would be embarrassed of, that nose belonging to a boxer with no defensive skills, and those lips spread so flat over his gappy uneven teeth that they looked like pancakes.

  Then there was the HUGE dent in the side of his head, deep enough for her to stick her fist into.

  He looked strong as a bull, but brains clearly weren’t his strong point.

  Blondie was relieved that Bulldog—what a fuckingly apt name—didn’t drool when he spoke.

  Beside her, Stacy was fucking delighted with Herbie.

  “So tell me, Herbie,” she said, letting her fingers play on his wrist, “what business do you do?”

  Herbie laughed. “I’m a contractor.”

  “He deals in pretty women,” Bulldog interjected.

  Herbie winced. This was why he preferred not taking Bulldog places with him. The lout was trying to fuck up this pussy recruitment drive. And this was classy cunt here, not some strung-out junkie trash who’d fuck even a pig for her next fix.

  Herbie was super impressed with these ladies. Even Stacy—the shrewish redhead—had it going on when she smiled. Nice teeth, nice lips.

  Blondie and Stacy looked at each other and smiled.

  Then they both looked enquiring back at Herbie.

  “You’re a pimp?” Stacy asked teasingly.

  Herbie forced a laugh. He poured more wine into both women’s glasses. He had no idea why they suddenly seemed very pleased.

  He shrugged mentally. It made things easier that they weren’t prudes.

  “I prefer to think of it as providing a quality specialized sexual supply service for the discerning purveyor of perverted pleasure,” he replied.

  Blondie and Stacy gaped, trying to work out what he meant.

  “What he means,” Bulldog explained helpfully, “is that he does girls for people who like kinky sex.”

  Herbie shot him an angry glare. Then he shrugged self-depreciatingly. “I handle only the business of gentlemen . . . and ladies . . . of the highest class.”

  “He means only the stinking rich get to do his girls,” Bulldog finished.

  Herbie simmered. Stacy took his hand in both hers.

  “That’s great,” she said, staring deeply into Herbie’s eyes now with undisguised lust. “You’re just the sort of person we’re looking for.”

  That floored Herbie. “You ladies want me to represent you? You’re hookers?”

  Blondie grinned. “Need you ask? We’ve hooked you, haven’t we?”

  The quartet all laughed.

  Oh, yes, Herbie thought. Now to the nitty gritty. Time to discuss terms. Mustn’t be too stingy. These girls are major class ass. Maybe—

  He stopped thinking. Gorgeous Wong had just entered the bar.

  The Chinese girl looked around, searching for Herbie. He signaled her. She rushed over to his side, face even more serious than normal

  Shit, Herbie thought, something’s wrong.

  Gorgeous bowed to Blondie and Stacy. “Good evening, pretty ladies.” She turned back to Herbie. “I’ve been searching bar after bar for you, sir. Posh is at your skyscraper.”

  Herbie was stunned. “Posh?”

  “She’s asking after you. She seems very angry.”

  Bulldog smirked at Herbie. “Maybe that other guy ain’t as good as you in bed.”

  Herbie groaned. Bulldog, for heaven’s sake, shut your yap.

  Gorgeous left. Herbie watched her go. He saw she was waiting for him outside the bar.

  The girl’s smart, he thought. Okay, so she got no looks, but she’s got brains. Maybe I’ll just make her my secretary.

  He turned back to Blondie and Stacy. “Sorry, ladies. I’ve urgent business to attend to. You’re not in a hurry to leave, are you?”

  Both shook their heads. “Who’s Posh?” Stacy asked with a hint of jealousy.

  “She’s—” Bulldog began.

  Herbie silenced him with an angry glare.

  “She’s a chick who ran away with my money,” he lied smoothly. “I guess she’s back to pay her debt.” He smiled at them both. “Don’t worry, this won’t take long. I’ll be back before you even notice I’m gone.”

  He and Bulldog made their way across to the bar door.

  ***

  “I don’t like this,” Stacy told Blondie. “They might not come back.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Blondie said. “I’ll tag him.”

  She cupped her hand over her nose and sneezed into it. She winked at Stacy, then picked the little transparent fly she’d sneezed up out of her palm.

  “Follow Herbie,” she mouthed at it.

  She flung it towards the bar door.

  The fly zipped across the bar and out the door. It settled unseen on Herbie’s hair, then dissolved into it.

  Herbie, Bulldog, and Gorgeous set off to the left.

  Blondie gave Stacy a satisfied smirk. “Doesn’t matter where lover-man goes now, we’ll find him easy.”

  “Do you believe his story about the girl owing him money?”

  Blondie shook her head. “He was lying. He most likely owes her money.”

  She put a hand on Stacy’s thigh, massaged her muscles. “Now relax, baby. Night’s still young. You never know, someone much cuter than Herbie might come through the doors.”

  Stacy scowled. “I utterly doubt that.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Malone

  Malone trudged down Milk Street, then onto Devonshire.

  Devonshire Street continued uninterrupted south to Lincoln, then on to Chinatown Park.

  Good, Malone thought in groggy relief. No need to think no more. My legs will take me to Ma Cure. He was barely aware of what lay ahead or around him.

  Malone’s current problem was how to not die of exhaustion before he made it to Chinatown.

  Ironically, it was the last drug Rachel Fischer had injected him with that kept him going. In the same way it numbed his mind, so it numbed his body—he couldn’t feel the pain he was in. He felt like an automaton, like he was one of Rachel’s robots.

  Occasionally, it stabbed through his mind that even now, Frank could be driving around looking for him, desperate for revenge.

  Malone scoffed at the thought. Nah, he’s likely making sweet love to Rachel’s corpse.

  Blaster in right hand, severed head in the other, Malone shambled down Devonshire Street.

  Closer, closer to help.

  CHAPTER 26

  Herbie

  Herbie, Bulldog, and Gorgeous hurried up Devon-shire.

  Then they noticed the bloodied man walking zombie-slow down toward them.

  From a distance, they had no idea who it was.

  Just seeing him, however,—bloodstained, abdomen gaping like Callahan Tunnel entrance, huge blaster in one hand, Rachel Fischer’s head in the other—was enough of a caution.

  The trio ducked into a doorway to let him pass.

  “Shit, man,” Herbie said. “Just let this son-of-a-bitch go his merry way. I ain’t messing with no serial killers.”

  Herbie was unnerved by the approaching figure. The female head he gripped had its eyes open. The dead blood-obscured orbs seemed to be looking into his.

  Gorgeous’ plain face wrinkled in disgust. “This is a very sick man,” she said. “Where is he taking—”

  Then she gasped and squeezed Herbie’s hand. “That’s Malone!”

  Herbie tensed like he’d just felt a bug walking in his ear. “For real?”

  Herbie had only ever seen Malone once, and that was ages ago. He squinted at the bloody man, racking his mind for a facial match. It was no use. Malone’s face was too covered in blood for Herbie to identify even if he could remember him.

  Herbie looked at Bulldog. “This him?”

  Bulldog was as confused as his brother. “Can’t be sure. Too much mess.”

  Malone shambled past them.

>   Herbie stared moodily after the departing man.

  He turned to Gorgeous. “How the hell can you be so sure it’s him?”

  She blushed. After he rescued me from my kidnappers, Aunt Sookie ordered me to give him a taste of my ‘dragon grip pussy clench’ technique.”

  “So you screwed him. How does that help?”

  She blushed deeper. “Malone has a scar on his left thigh, just under his balls. I saw it just now.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yes. It’s unmissable. When I sucked his—”

  Bulldog cuffed her. “We don’t need to hear that part, you dumb slit.”

  “Ouch.”

  Neither Bulldog nor Gorgeous noticed that Herbie was now grinning as he watched Malone shuffling away from them.

  Gorgeous stepped away from Bulldog to prevent him hitting her again. Her expression became concerned. “We must help him, Mr. Herbie. He needs—”

  “I’ll get him to a doctor,” Herbie interrupted smoothly. “Bully, you two go and intercept Posh. Just keep her waiting till I get back.”

  Bulldog was skeptical, though obviously relieved to not be accompanying Herbie. “You sure ‘bout this? He looks psycho.”

  “Malone isn’t a psychopath,” Gorgeous interjected from a safe distance. “Unlike you, he’s a gentleman.”

  Bulldog turned menacingly to her. “Shut your trap before I break all your teeth.”

  Gorgeous glowered back, then assumed a kung fu stance. “Try it, monkey.”

  “That’s it,” Bulldog growled. “You’re dead meat, you ugly Chink whore.”

  “Shit-filled asshole!”

  Bulldog balled his fists. “Damn, you—!” He shut up because Gorgeous had lifted her left leg and placed her sole flat on his face. She held the ballerina-like pose, hands chop-ready.

  Her eyes were frigid. “I dare you to fuck with me.”

  Bulldog staggered back. Gorgeous held the martial arts pose, her foot in the air like a 1970s movie poster.

  “You . . . you . . .” Bulldog sputtered. He regarded Gorgeous warily, prepared to circle around her.

  “Stop it, both of you,” Herbie snapped.

  Both stared sullenly back at him. Gorgeous slowly lowered her outstretched leg. She and Bulldog both lowered their hands, relaxed their fighting stances.

  Herbie was impressed with Gorgeous. No women he knew dared talk back to Bully. And to actually pick a fight?

  He doubted that her kung fu was any good, though. It hadn’t prevented her getting abducted, had it? Still the chick had spunk.

  He stole a quick glance down-street to ensure that Malone was still in view, then turned back to his companions.

  “Now listen,” he said sternly, “don’t you dare start fighting.”

  “I’m not your brother’s punching bag,” Gorgeous said. “Warn him. If he touches me again, I’ll break his arm.”

  She looked intently at Herbie. “I’m not going with Bulldog, Mr. Herbie. I’ll come with you to help Malone.”

  Oh, no. Herbie thought. You’re not coming with me. I’m going to kill this Malone bastard and I don’t need any fucking witnesses.

  (The IDEA had struck Herbie suddenly, hard as a bullet to the brain. He realized he’d never have another opportunity like this—Malone gutted like a pig and clearly half-blind.

  Bulldog would never agree to help—he regarded Malone with semi-divine awe.

  And Gorgeous? His secretary-slut sounded besotted with the private dick, like she wanted to ‘dragon pussy clench’ him again.

  So he’d do this alone, using his pocketknife. He’d head after Malone, knock him off, then meet up with the others to knock some sense into his thieving whore Posh.)

  Herbie looked pointedly at Gorgeous. “Malone is carrying a woman’s head. He obviously killed her. So you can’t come with me. He clearly doesn’t like chicks at the moment. Maybe his wife left him.”

  “He’s not married!”

  Herbie winced. “Just git, or I’ll return you to your aunt!”

  The threat worked. Gorgeous instantly turned pale, then she turned away, glaring angrily.

  “Now, you get,” Herbie addressed Bulldog in a rush. “And don’t you dare fucking rough her up. Just both of you go and get Posh. Kapish?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Then he looked all embarrassed like he had a question.

  “Yes, what is it?” Herbie was growing exasperated by these seemingly endless delays. Malone was still in sight, but any moment now, he could turn onto a side street and Herbie would lose him.

  Then Herbie also remembered the two superfine ladies he’d left at Sugar Ray’s Bar. He winced, this mustn’t take forever. He didn’t want to miss that svelte pair.

  (Herbie had decided to take Sookie’s advice. With Blondie, Stacy, and Posh, he had the beginnings of a high class slut stable. His re-acquiring Posh, however, depended on his killing Malone, which Bulldog seemed intent on scuppering.)

  Bulldog grinned. “This ‘dragon grip clench pussy’ technique of hers sounds interesting. Er . . . is it okay if I try it later?”

  Herbie rolled his eyes. “Of course, of course, you can screw her.”

  “No, he cannot ‘screw her,’ Mr. Herbie,” Gorgeous said with a sweet, geisha-like smile.

  She leered at Bulldog, then tapped her crotch. “Hidden in here is a great Chinese sexual delicacy. Unfortunately, you won’t ever taste it.”

  Bulldog glowered. “You little . . .I’ll . . .”

  “And if you dare to rape me, I’ll dragon clench your cock so tight it will come out looking like a pencil. You won’t even be able to pee through it.”

  Bulldog’s ugly face turned red. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  Gorgeous smiled with Buddha-like serenity. “I won’t? Just you try and fuck me without my permission.”

  Herbie couldn’t stand their bickering anymore.

  “Just fucking get lost, both of you!” he yelled. “Go on, fuck off!”

  Without waiting to see if they’d heeded his in-struction, he set off at a run after Malone, now visible only as a distant red speck.

  Shit, he thought, what sort of dolts do I have to work with?

  CHAPTER 27

  Sugar Ray

  Sugar Ray Badass hated dragons.

  Two years ago, Sugar Ray had been the number one contender for Vlad ‘The Punch Impaler’ Utkin’s undisputed world heavyweight crown.

  Vladimir Utkin was a Russian giant, six-feet-eight in his socks. Ugly motherfucker, with a broken nose, two cauliflower ears, and flat lips. But he’d been champ for ten years now, and showed no sign of slowing down his unprecedented domination of world boxing.

  No one could fucking beat the guy. He’d won all the heavyweight belts: IBF, WBF, WBC, WBO, IBA— the list just went on.

  An even bigger problem was, that, with no surprises left, no one watched heavyweight boxing anymore. Box office receipts for fights were at an all-time low.

  It got so bad that the boxing promoters and federations held an emergency meeting, where they decided to ask Vlad to relinquish his title—in exchange for ten percent of all heavyweight title purses for the next ten years.

  The deal would have made ‘The Punch Impaler’ close to two hundred million dollars. But Vlad turned it down. He intended, he said, to reach his goal of a hundred title defenses of his heavyweight crown, after which he’d retire undefeated.

  The federations pleaded and pleaded. Vlad refused to heed them.

  So the Cold War resumed. East versus West, with gloves on.

  Every boxing trainer in America began looking for that magic fighter who’d take ‘that arrogant Ruskie who refuses to worship the Almighty Dollar’ down.

  Enter Sugar Ray Badass.

  The young black kid was tall—six-feet-four inches. Nowhere near Vlad’s six-eight, but Sugar Ray was lightning fast. He was the fastest thing anyone had seen in a ring since Muhammad Ali or Manny Pacquiao. And he could hit like Mike Tyson.

  He was handsome too, though everyone knew his
cover boy looks were finished once he fought ‘that damn re-communist.’

  After Sugar Ray brutally punched his way into the number one contender’s spot, the big fight was set up.

  ***

  Madison Square Garden. July 31st, 2026, 1.45 a.m. Vlad ‘The Punch Impaler’ Utkin vs. Sugar Ray Badass, for the Undisputed World Heavyweight Belt. 15 Rounds of boxing. Midway through the eighth round.

  Sugar Ray had been in fights before, but nothing like this one. He was taking the beating of his motherfucking life.

  Nothing but sheer willpower was keeping him in the match. Vlad kept coming at him, kept coming. Sugar Ray weaved, ducked and feinted, and even got in a few good punches of his own, but all in all, he was getting his ass whipped.

  He’d been okay in the first few rounds, but since then it had been all Vlad. Dammit, man. No wonder they call this guy ‘The Impaler,’ it feels like each punch he’s hitting me with is going right through my body.

  Vlad was roughed up too, with a black eye and his flat nose already flatter, but Sugar Ray was a total mess. His right eye was almost fully closed and the left wasn’t much better. Blood was dripping down his face on to his chest from his broken nose and split lips.

  He wasn’t going to be no cover boy after this beat-down that was for sure.

  The referee had come over to Sugar Ray’s corner during the break.

  “Look guys,” he said wearily. “This kid can’t keep taking this sort of punishment for the next seven rounds. He’ll have permanent brain damage. You guys either throw in the towel, or I’m stopping the fight.”

  Freddy Crucial, Ray’s trainer, had nodded. He’d looked down sadly at Sugar Ray. “Sorry, kid, the man’s right. You’re getting murdered in there.”

  “I’m still good to go,” Sugar Ray insisted.

  “You got heart, kid, but—”

  “I’ll fucking win this fight!”

  The ref smiled down at him. “You ever watch ‘The Champ,’ son? What use is winning if you’re dead? See that Russian there, he don’t give a shit about you. He’ll kill you then go out clubbing.”