by R. J. GREEN
Mrs. Mullson skimmed through the refrigerator. “So what's the plan for tonight, Mister Busy?” she asked.
Detective Mullson jiggled his bum and twirled his waist, slowly, as he unleashed his freakiness to lure his wife who had begun to drift into a fantasy. By the look on her face he figured she was getting wet, and he kept pressing. Mullson came towards her and removed his shirt, exposing his muscular chest and rock hard abs. “After my meeting,” he teased, “a whole bunch of action, baby.”
Before she got a chance to oppose him, he grabbed her and forced his chest against her back, between finger and thumb he tweaked her nipples gently, until they became hard and erect.
At first Mrs. Mullson wanted to push his hands away, but didn’t, especially after an electrifying sensation started to rush from her breasts to her clit, she turned and faced him, they kissed each other on the lips, slowly, then randomly on the neck, chest, breast, like there was no tomorrow.
CHAPTER 5
In the Bronx the night got extraordinarily cold for this time of year, but nobody seemed to be complaining, for it had to be better than fans rushing the hot summer air against the body. Other than that, residents went about without noticing unusual activity at the Catholic Church bordered by Eastchester Road, Mickle Avenue, and Adee Avenue. The church, with stained-glass designs filled where red-brick didn’t occupy, towered high above the surrounding houses that stood about three stories. Drives and parking spaces carved in a well maintained grass lawn that spread throughout the churchyard, a variety of tulips, roses, and others flowers scattered closer to the hedges.
A cat that had been scanning the yard all day kept checking a hole where a rat dodged earlier, finally got distracted by strange men on the outskirts glancing at the cross above the church’s steeple. Several of the men sprinted forward and jumped to hurl their bodies above the ten foot fence; they almost succeeded if it wasn’t for the cat who thundered a purr and curled up as they approached.
From in the church Father Andrew glanced at his unwelcome guests as they darted away. Something or someone made them gallop away. What could have spooked them? This he needed to know to protect Detective Mullson. In the meantime he prayed for mankind, for Mullson and his family, for the people living in the community. He wished Mullson a safe journey in hope he arrives before the angel of darkness returns.
Later in the night, for hours, there was not a single human roaming the street. A mysterious figure slithering along Adee Avenue came and stood at a corner opposite the church, about thirty meters away. He observed every movement, like the ruffling of tree branches by the unusual icy wind, shadows creeping about in the churchyard, a cat crunched to attack a mouse. The glowing of the moon, after slipping from behind a dark cloud, offered less coverage as the thing unblended with the darkness. The air rushing across his over six foot frame didn’t prevent his ears from twitching at the sounds of a clock echoing from within the depths of the church, inaudible for any human from where he stood. He tipped back his head and peered at the cross towering above the roof of the church, and spotted a crow perching.
From inside the church Father Andrew kept a close eye on the creature. Something is preventing him from coming to snatch away the book, the thought occurred to him. The only thing he spotted in the churchyard for the past days was a stray cat.
“Are they afraid of the cat?” he whispered. In the backdrop, the silence was broken by the revving of an engine and the squeaking of tires against pavement. The man seemed startled as a silver Porsche 911 Carrera swerved towards him; the car was moving at top speed all the way to the corner of Adee Avenue. The headlights revealed the man to be Engulf. Mullson spotted him and continued to slam on the brakes, but it was useless.
The crow thundered a squawk as the Porsche collided with Engulf.
Detective Mullson had the life knocked out of his body, against a deployed airbag his face rested, with a cold wind rushing across his body his mind drifted to the other side.
Inside the church, lights dimmed high above from its arching ceiling, rows of benches aligned equally distant. On the floor, at the middle of the church, Detective Mullson’s unconscious body rested. Father Andrew, carrying a jar of water, entered from a rear door. He hurried to the center of the church and splashed the water against Mullson’s face. Mullson opened his eyes and tried to focus on the lights above.
“Where am I?” he said.
“Don't worry,” Father Andrew replied. “You’re safe now.”
“My car?”
“Yer car is perfectly fine.”
A clock located high on the wall striked as Mullson hustled to his feet; the time read ten o’ clock.
“It's very important to follow time,” Father Andrew continued.
“Thought I was on point,” said Mullson, looking at the clock.
With fury fuming in his heart Father Andrew headed back toward the rear door he’d come from earlier. In his mind Mullson had broken the first rule — the most important one.
“If you want to survive I suggest you do exactly what I say,” he warned. The only thing Mullson could do was watch as the old man walked away.
“Are you implying that punctuality is a bad thing?” he asked.
“Ten o’clock means, exactly that,” said Father Andrew, almost reaching the rear door.
“Is he dead?” said Mullson, after summing up the courage.
Father Andrew, facing away, came to a standstill. “Sometimes what we see,” he said, “is what we should not.”
“Is he dead?” Mullson bellowed.
“Please excuse yourself Detective Mullson!” Father Andrew snarled, stretching for the knob, he shoved the door and exited.
The minute Mullson got to his car he scanned every inch of his surroundings, but he didn’t find any sign of the man he swore he’d hit — the one who disappeared within the strangeness of the night, without even spilling a drop of blood. He inspected the car over and over, and found nothing unusual.
On the other side of town, truckers descended upon an imperiled neighborhood after a long trip to one of New York’s largest fish markets. Hunts Point flourished from the fish business. Other than the fish market, there was not much to see. On the outskirts, surrounded by rundown buildings, drug dealers and prostitutes roamed the streets.
Pimps staked out their prey, every dollar counted in this game of cat and mouse, and no bitch escaped their grasp. Lightly dressed ladies stood on the corner slaving for a living, allowing customers to sneak a peek at their overused packages – fishy, with a dash of powder to freshen up. Police cars crept about the dark streets, lights flashing as they zoomed up and down, deterring drivers who’d stop to talk to women on almost every other corner.
In the distance, a motorcycle approached. A lightly dressed lady spotted the motorcycle slowing and walked forward. The rider, face concealed by a helmet, sat on the bike and waited as the woman came and stood close by. They talked briskly; she pointed him to an abandoned building where he hid the bike at the side of the house and followed her up a flight of stairs, leading to the main door. She braced against the door, the hinges squeaked as the door swung open, they entered a dark hallway where a musky scent of mold and dust cluttered the air and made the woman spray a few sneezes.
Boots and heels pounded against the wooden stairway, broken in a few areas. The building trembled beneath their feet. The lady guided the stranger to a room on the third floor and wasted no time as she used her lighter and lit a candle she placed at the center of the empty room; near the sole window where the moon light got reflected by a barrier of dust collected over the years, she brushed off a deflated air bed and forced the man to lie on his back. Cobwebs entangled the ceiling and other areas that were left undisturbed.
The stranger smacked the lady on her butt, repeatedly till she moaned out in pleasure.
“It's your time baby,” his voice echoed. “Just make it smooth.” She slid down his zipper and sat on something, large, her eyes widened with excitement as s
he forced it into her wet cunny. Every untouched spot was finally reached by the thick long dick the stranger possessed. Not that she planned to enjoy the show, only for the money, but she got carried away, fulfilling her deepest fantasy as she indulged in sex beyond her wildest imagination. Little did she know the creature lurking under the helmet was thirsty for life, for anything that comforted the desire of his maker, for a taste of the hot blood gushing through her veins — he resisted all the temptations, but the maker reached out — and the dark-side took control of his body.
The woman loved the way she had the stranger screaming for more, doubling the pace in an effort to leave a mark on his dick, she guaranteed him a night he’d never forget while hoping he’d return. Thirty minutes had come and gone, yet she didn’t stop, as she did on countless occasions. She now broke the first rule of engagement — and sensed her pimp was already on his way to deal her justice — but she’d no intention of stopping now. Her body began to shake out of control. She’d never felt like this before, the way her vagina contracted as secretion sprayed out.
The man continued to wail, the lady had being doing her best to please him, at first he wanted it and was amazed when she sat on the whole thing, as if he had a toothpick down there. The pain became overbearing. The headache seemed to trouble him more during times of happiness; he yanked off his helmet and tossed it aside.
The sex ended abruptly as the woman stared at his charred face, at first she tried to yell but she couldn’t, and when she finally did, a shrilling sound filled the air as she screamed her soul out.
Pimps heard the ruckus and rushed in the direction from where it came, springing with all their might they reached the building and busted through the front gate, the sounds of glass shattering had them looking up at a third floor window where a female head had crashed through and landed on the street below.
About two hours later, in Manhattan, outside of Marco’s Sport’s Bar, located on the first floor of a high-rise building, a group of bikers were hanging out smoking and drinking; most of them stood blocking the entrance as people squeezed their way to the bar, or to their apartments above.
Residents feared the worst as gang bangers began to invade their neighborhood. To some the bikers were rowdy and disgusting, people kept calling the police but nothing was done to remedy the situation. Quite a few residents prayed for the day when those bastards would get their share of the pie they’d being dishing for way too long.
Inside the bar, colorful lights dazzled, on a small stage musicians blew saxophones and strummed guitars. Maxine, an attractive young lady in a short skirt, sleeveless top, and boots just below the knees, danced to the sweet melodies. At the counter, Detective Mullson sat and held his head, all night he’d been trying to shun Father Andrew's voice, especially the words: Sometimes what we see, is what we should not. “Bullshit!” he bellowed, slamming his palm against the counter.
At fifty-five years old the bartender had been here for the past decade, as the years shredded, his blonde hair was almost white, but nothing seemed to slow him. Family operated, his club had a fair share of gangsters, Mafia, and pimps— he’d seen it all. He came and stood by Mullson. “Mullson,” said Marco, with a strong Italian accent. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll be alright,” said Mullson. “Just need a few minutes to clear my head.”
Jack, wearing a white suit, holding an unlit cigar in one hand, entered and began to stare at Maxine as she passed him on her way out. He turned and smiled, after glancing at her ass — “If I could get a hold of that strong booty,” he thought to himself, “damn she’s fine as a…”
“Stop watching my ass you pervert!” Maxine said with a coarse voice, but to herself she thought, oh my God, that white suit is the bomb.
“Holy crop,” said a confused Jack, scurrying towards Detective Mullson. He quickly erased all the dirty thoughts lingering in his head. He’d fallen for Maxine’s strong legs and thick body, damn, he still can’t believe she’s a man. “What's up partner,” he teased Mullson, “you look like a bum. Did the Motherland chew you up and spit you out?”
“What's up Detective Jack, ass?” said Mullson mockingly.
“Jack for you mister,” said Jack jokingly.
“You guys haven't changed one bit,” said Marco, retrieving a half full glass from Mullson.
“What's up uncle?” Jack greeted Marco. “Give me some of what Mullson is drinking. Looks like some strong shit.”
Marco handed him a glass of what Jack thought to be brandy. Jack took a sip and immediately spit the contents back into the glass, slamming it on the counter.
“You asked for it,” Mullson teased.
“Apple Juice is for babies,” Jack blurted. “I need something more manly.” He dipped into his jacket pocket and pulled out some photos. Detective Mullson skimmed through the photos Jack handed him.
“Who's the guy without the head?” he asked Jack.
“Jeft,” said Jack. “He used to work at JFK. Both of his partners got killed.”
Mullson ran a hand across his chin. “Jeft,” he said, shuffling his brain to where he’d heard the name. “Jeft. Conrad Jeft?”
“You knew him?” Jack asked.
“Long story,” said Mullson.
“What about the others?”
“Sam Barton and K,” said Jack, almost as if nothing happened.
“Where is Kay?” said Mullson.
“K as in K9,” Jack replied.
Marco came over and glanced at a picture. “What kind of person kills a dog?” he asked.
Outside the bar, the bikers continued to hangout. As the night progressed the alcohol had began to poison their minds, even more. An old fellow using a rod to find his way around walked towards the rowdy bunch and slammed into a motorcycle. A biker spotted the man and came towards him; swinging his foot he connected the man in the buttocks, hurling the blind fellow through the air. The man got up and dashed down the street, bumping into the unknown as he desperately tried to save his life.
Inside Marco’s Sport’s Bar, the crowd began to vanish; the musicians packed away their gear, Detective Mullson handed Jack a business card.
“They seem like nice folks,” he said. “We could pay them a visit tomorrow.”
“Lets call it a night,” Jack advised Mullson. “See you later uncle,” he waved goodbye to Marco.
“Goodnight Uncle Marco,” said Mullson, waving.
“Keep out of trouble you two,” Marco warned, waving back as they exited.
The instant Jack and Mullson stepped outside they got confronted by the biker who’d earlier kicked the blind fellow in the buttocks. Mullson head-butted his opponent and left him in a bloody mess. The rest of bikers rushed towards Mullson and Jack — they kicked, punched, and slapped.
The bikers gained an early advantage with their numbers.
Detective Mullson’s quick hand speed finally gave his team an edge as he pounded his targets, temporarily paralyzing those on the receiving side.
Jack stood grinning as he pulled out a cellphone stun gun and zapped his opponents with four and a half million volts, over and over till they collapsed on the pavement and begged for mercy. He’d no intention of stopping anytime soon; a siren wailing in the distance distracted him. Some of the bikers hurried to their feet. Jack discharged the stun gun one last time before he and Mullson decide to scamper away. They weren’t in any mood to explain or write a report for a minor incident, besides the chief wouldn’t believe them because of their bad-boy reputation.
CHAPTER 6
With a rush of excitement and an empty road Mullson found himself doing something he’d always condemned. Along the Northern State Parkway with most of the streetlights already turned off, a black sport BMW and a Porsche 911 sped towards Long Island. Using every inch of the two lanes the cars moved back and forth, narrowly missing the concrete barrier at the center of the road, as they fought for the lead.
Jack focused ahead as the headlights of his BMW penetrated a light
fog that was hovering above the road, he spotted something and wrenched the wheel right, avoiding a shattered tire in the left lane; he then swung the steering wheel to block the Porsche inching on his tail. A quick glance at his odometer showed the car was almost max, but he kept pushing.
Mullson who’d being tailing Jack swung his Porsche 911 and avoided the tire, he changed to fourth gear, then to fifth, and zoomed pass Jack. He changed down and kicked the accelerator, revving his turbo engine as he taunted Jack. By the time his car hit top speed he’d disappeared into the darkness of the night.
Jack lost control for a brief moment, but turned his car counterclockwise to match the direction it revolved — a full three hundred and sixty degree while slamming on the brakes, before coming to a standstill. He took in a whiff of smoke that filled the air; his tires burnt against the pavement, but the scent drifting in the breeze was different. Jack had a gift to sense death and knew something big was about to happen. The smell of gasoline, smoke, and fire. His eyes widened as he took another sniff. He hit start and the engine rumbled to life, he switched from manual to automatic and shoved the lever into drive.
In the Mullson’s master bedroom the light was slightly dimmed, a clock radio on top of the chest indicated the time was 3:00 AM. At the center of the room Mrs. Mullson laid on a king-size bed, twisting and turning, she moaned softly as her husband slid between her legs and stroked her body. Things were getting real steamy; she jumped up out of her sleep. SIGH.
“All this sweating for nothing,” she said, looking disappointed as she saw no sign of her husband.
Magarette Mullson dragged her body off the bed and drifted towards the door, tiptoed down the stairs, and headed straight to the kitchen, in the dark. She yanked the refrigerator door open and retrieved a ripe banana, much bigger than the norm. She slammed the refrigerator door shut and stood and observed the banana keenly, but had no intention of eating it. She lowered her eyes and almost tempted to open her leg, but only managed to sigh. Into the refrigerator she tossed back the banana and slammed the door.