by Eric Wilder
“What else?” I asked.
“Say a prayer for Jean Pierre. His life is in great danger, and it is very possible he will die before he’s ever able to open the gate and lower the drawbridge.”
Chapter 36
J.P. had dozed off from boredom while waiting for darkness to fall. He awoke when Tubah shook his shoulder.
“Time has come,” she said. “Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
“You’ll do just fine,” she said. “Just stay focused on what you are trying to accomplish, and don’t let any of the beautiful women you’re going to meet, influence your decisions.”
“I’ve never had an easy time with that one,” he said.
“Tonight is different. Many people are counting on you. One more thing,” she said.
“Yes?”
“The window of opportunity you will have to lower the drawbridge is small. You will be sorely tempted to try to do more. You must not.”
“Please explain.”
She shook her head. “I have told you more than I should have.”
Tubah refused to answer any more of his questions, leading him instead to the door of the interspatial portal, and then watching as he pulled the mask over his face. When the door shut, leaving him in total darkness, he became light-headed. For a fleeting moment, he thought he might have to throw up. He didn’t. When he opened the door, he was on Bourbon Street.
Mardi Gras in the French Quarter is wild, Halloween on Bourbon Street maybe even wilder. Hundreds of costumed revelers filled the festive thoroughfare, drinking, singing, and dancing. The revelry quickly caught up to J.P. The entrance to Sister Gertrude’s gentleman’s club was several blocks away as he pushed slowly through the crowd.
No city celebrates Halloween like New Orleans does, and there are none quite as imaginative at creating unusual costumes as natives of the city. A young woman dressed as a harem girl caught J.P.’s eyes. He also caught hers. Making a beeline to him through the crowd, she ripped off his mask and kissed him.
The male companion of the inebriated young woman grabbed her arm, pulling her away through the crowd. On any other night, J.P. would have been disappointed. Tonight, he simply shrugged and started away again through the mostly drunken crowd of costumed zombies, witches, and pirates.
High Rollers was the fitting name of Sister Gertrude’s club, the barker at the door letting everyone know beforehand that the cover charge to enter the establishment was a hundred bucks. J.P. paid the cover charge and tipped the door attendant another hundred. Sounds of loud music, the smell of strong alcohol, and the sight of near-naked women greeted him when he entered the club. A smiling waitress with a thick thatch of blond hair greeted him.
“I’m Opium,” she said.
“That’s a new name on me. Why do they call you that?” he asked.
“Maybe because I’m so addictive, and every man’s fantasy,” she said. “What can I get you to drink?”
Opium’s costume was little more than a pink nightie worn over a black G-string and mesh stockings, complete with red garters that matched her mask.
“Southern Comfort on the rocks,” he said. “And make it a double.”
“Never had a customer order one of those,” she said.
“Just started drinking it myself, and it’s kinda growing on me.”
“I’ll need a credit card,” she said.
“Never carry one when I’m out on the town. I got plenty of these,” he said, handing her a hundred dollar bill.
“Guess that’ll work,” she said. “I’ll ask my manager.”
“You do that, sweet thing. Tell him I got a thousand with his name all over it.”
“I’ll tell him,” she said.
He pinched her bottom when she turned toward the bar to order his drink.
“That’ll cost you extra,” she said.
“Then don’t worry. My money’s burning a hole in my pocket.”
After returning with J.P.’s drink, Opium rewarded him with a sensual kiss and flash of her breasts. Before she could walk away, he stuffed a handful of hundreds into her nightie.
Fittingly for Halloween night, the bar’s motif was the color red. Red, rotating spotlights cast a supernatural glow on the walls, ceiling, and floor of the establishment. A fog machine beneath the dance floor periodically shot clouds of mist around the naked dancers. Loud, head smashing, heavy metal music blasted from giant speakers.
J.P. elbowed his way past the men sitting around the raised stage and began tipping the two dancers with hundred dollar bills. A man in a pinstriped suit soon pushed through the crowd and tapped his shoulder.
“Hey, bud, we need to have a little talk,” he said.
“You bet,” J.P. said. “Just give me a second to give these pretty ladies a few more hundreds.”
The man in the suit had oiled hair, a pencil-thin mustache, and a broken front tooth. He wasn’t smiling as he led J.P. to a dimly-lit hallway, stopping by a fake potted plant.
“You can’t stay here unless you got a credit card,” the man said, his voice stern.
J.P. flashed his thick roll of cash. “You don’t take real money in this place?”
“We keep a running tab. Can’t do that without a credit card,” the man said.
J.P. just grinned and shook his head. “No problem,” he said. “I’ll just head down the street to Bootleggers. They and their girls don’t mind taking real money.”
When J.P. turned to leave, the oily man called to him.
“Wait just a second. Why the hell don’t you have a credit card?”
“Maybe you should ask Gertrude,” J.P. said.
“You know Sister Gertrude?”
J.P. nodded. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“I’ll just call her and see.”
“You do that,” J.P. said. “Tell her Jean Pierre Saucier will be spending his money at Bootlegger’s from now on.”
“Never heard of you,” the man said.
“And I bet you wouldn’t recognize Bill Gates if he walked up and shook your hand.”
“You ain’t Bill Gates,” the man said.
“Nope, I’m J.P. Saucier.”
Before J.P. could take a step for the door, the man grabbed his elbow.
“I hate to bother Sister Gertrude. She’s sort of busy tonight. Stick around. We’ll take your cash this time, though next time you come in, you’ll need a credit card.”
J.P. stuffed a hundred dollars into the oily man’s coat pocket. Opium was waiting nearby, watching the exchange. She smiled when the man gave her a nod. She was still smiling when she took J.P.’s hand.
“I was worried old prune face was gonna kick you out for not having a credit card,” she said. “Against club policy, you know. He gave me the high sign, so I’ll be taking care of you the rest of the night.”
“Great,” J.P. said.
“Follow me,” she said. “You’re special tonight. You’re gonna have your very own fantasy room.”
She led him to a second level overlooking the main bar. Wispy curtains of blue and purple silk formed the private room, a table, and couch the only furniture. J.P. sank into the couch, Opium piling into his lap. He was already well on his way to being sexually aroused when two scantily clad dancers joined them.
“This is Nightshade and Belladonna,” Opium said.
“They sound dangerous,” J.P. said.
“We are dangerous,” one of the women said. “Hope you have plenty of money on you because we’re the two best table dancers in town.”
J.P. reached for his roll of cash. “Prove it,” he said.
He soon had rotating dancers keeping him company whenever they weren’t on the dance floor. Though he had no watch and there was no clock on the wall, he was on his third Southern Comfort and knew he had been there awhile. He was starting to worry when a woman he hadn’t seen before arrived at the table.
The dancer sitting on the couch beside him got up and let the woman replace her, not saying g
oodbye as she slipped out of the silk curtains. The others quickly followed suit, leaving him alone with the attractive woman.
“I’m Batgirl,” she said.
“Hi, Batgirl, I’m J.P. I love your costume.”
Batgirl smiled, showing him her blood-red fingernails that matched the color of her lips when she used them to caress his wrist. Red hair highlighted her black latex bikini and calf-length, spiked heel boots, and splayed over her bare shoulders. Her eyes were a shade of green he’d never before seen and reminded him of a cat’s.
“The girls say you’re a big spender,” she said.
Just to show her she wasn’t mistaken, he stuffed a hundred into her bra.
“Shouldn’t Batgirl be wearing a mask and bat ears?” he asked.
“I have something better,” she said.
“Like what?”
“These,” she said, opening her mouth to show him a perfect set of vampire fangs.
“Those look real,” he said.
“Because they are, and so are these,” she said, pulling down her bra. “Ever had sex with a gorgeous, red-headed vampire?”
“Can’t say as I have, though I’d like to,” he said.
“How about having an orgy with ten beautiful vampires?”
J.P. removed his mask and grinned. “Baby, that sounds like heaven to me. Where is this party? I want to be there.”
“Not in heaven. I can promise you that. And there won’t be any angels hanging around either.”
“Sounds kinky,” he said. “Tell me more. I’m interested.”
“Thought so,” she said. “What’s your favorite perversion?”
“I’m Catholic,” he said. “I always thought it would be kinda cool to have sex with a nun. Not just any nun, but one as gorgeous as a movie star.”
Batgirl showed him her fangs when she smiled and nodded. “How would you like to have sex with the most beautiful nun in the world?”
“Now, you’re talking my language,” he said. “Where do I sign up?”
“The owner of this nightclub hosts the Vampire Ball at her castle every year on Halloween. Only the elite are invited to attend.”
“Who do I have to kill to get an invite?”
Batgirl grinned. “No one. You just need lots of money.”
“I got plenty of that,” J.P. said. “How much we talking about?”
Below them, the music had stopped briefly as one of the dancers finished her set to the applause of appreciative men sitting around the dance floor. After scooping the pile of wadded cash off the stage, the naked dancer grabbed her tiny outfit, took a bow, and strutted away behind a dark curtain.
“Ten grand, for starters,” Batgirl said. “That amount doesn’t include sex with the nun.”
“I’ve got a wad of hundreds here but not that much,” J.P. said.
“Maybe that’s why you need a credit card,” Batgirl said.
J.P. was glancing at the roll of hundreds in his hand when a flashy credit card appeared bearing the name J.P. King.
“I didn’t want to use this,” he said, handing her the card.
She took it and started away. “I’ll run this first. Hope you got a giant line of credit.”
“Me too,” he said as he watched her disappear behind the flowing curtain.
She returned with a smile on her face. “You’re golden, Mr. King. Your credit card is unlimited.”
“The only kind I have,” he said, stuffing several hundred-dollar bills into her bra. “Hell, if this party is everything you say it is, I hope it don’t catch fire and burn. Tell me more about this beautiful nun.”
“Her name is Desire. She was a supermodel, and I’ll bet you’ve seen her picture on a magazine cover.”
“You gotta be kidding,” he said.
“No, I’m not. She’s an honest-to-God nun. For the right price, she’ll do anything you want her to do.”
“How much?” he asked.
“She’s the most expensive piece of ass you’ve ever had, or will ever have again,” she said.
“You got me drooling just thinking about it, sweet thing. Tell me how much.”
“Twenty grand,” she said. “And that’s just for her.”
“Girl,” he said, “Put it on the card and give yourself a big tip. I can hardly wait. How do I find this beautiful nun?”
The heavy chain Batgirl slipped over his head had a golden doubloon attached. Stamped on the doubloon was the picture of a nun. Beneath the picture were the words Vampire Ball.
“She’s on the third floor of the castle where Sister Gertrude keeps her sex slaves.”
“Desire’s a slave?”
“Bought and paid for. Believe me when I tell you that no sane person would willingly perform the perverted sex acts some of the men require her to do. Unless they were frightened out of their minds that someone would punish them severely if they didn’t.”
“Guess that’s her problem and not mine,” he said.
“You just bought yourself the fantasy of a lifetime,” she said. “Keep the necklace around your neck. One of the attendants at the ball will see the doubloon and take you to Desire.”
“I got a big appetite,” J.P. said. “What else you got?”
“Desire’s your wildest wet dream,” Batgirl said. “There’s more, though, if you have any bullets left in your gun.”
“Will you be there?” he asked.
“Before the night is over,” she said. “When I arrive, I’ll find you.”
“How do I get to this party?”
She took his hand, led him through the noisy and crowded bar to the same hallway where he’d spoken with the manager. She pointed to the door at the end of the hallway.
“Through that door,” she said.
“Sure you’re not coming with me?”
“Like I said, I’ll be along after I get off work.”
“You sure?”
Drawing close to him, she kissed his neck. “I keep my promises,” she said opening the door for him.
As he had in Tubah’s interspatial portal, he grew light-headed when Batgirl shut the door behind him. The sensation lasted only a moment. Loud music and the cacophony of hundreds of revelers swept over him when he opened the portal door.
Chapter 37
J.P. had a hard time believing his eyes when he exited the interspatial portal. He’d attended lavish parties held in Garden District mansions, and Mardi Gras balls hosted in giant ballrooms. Nothing prepared him for the outlandish theme party he’d stepped into.
The ballroom was enormous, the ceiling in places fully three stories above the stone floor. There was no electricity, only the flickering light of a dozen candle-powered chandeliers and crackling fire from several massive stone fireplaces.
Priceless Persian rugs covered the floor, expensive tapestries draping from the walls of stone. A smiling woman dressed as a serving wench met him at the door.
“Welcome, my lord. I see you are wearing a gold doubloon around your neck.”
“Yes,” he said. “I haven’t seen this many masqueraders since I was in college and snuck into the Rex Ball.”
“We have quite a turnout tonight,” she said. “I am Guinevere, your hostess. Your every wish is my command. And I truly mean every wish. The kinkier it is, the better I’ll like it.”
“Anything?”
“Whatever your heart desires.”
The long braids in Guinevere’s flaxen hair draped over her shoulders. The emerald green sheath she wore matched the color of her eyes, and was low cut and revealing. It barely covered her shapely derriere.
“Open your mouth,” he said.
She smiled, baring her teeth in a manner that clearly showed her vampire fangs.
“You like?” she asked.
“You bet I do,” he said. “Give me a quick tour, and then I’ll decide what my pleasure is.”
She pointed to a row of wooden benches brimming with an array of food befitting a feast. Serving wenches wandered around the tables, refil
ling pitchers of wine and food bowls. J.P. hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and the aroma made his stomach growl.
“Sister Gertrude always prepares a magnificent feast for everyone to enjoy. Are you hungry?”
“Starved,” he said.
“Would you like for me to find you a seat at the table?”
“Wish I had time. I got other things on my mind right now.”
“I’ll bet you do,” she said, her smile showing her fangs. “There’s an empty couch by the fireplace. We could shed these clothes and get to know each other better.”
“In the middle of all these people?”
“Look around. We wouldn’t be the only ones partaking in a bit of sexual depravity.”
Even though shadows masked much of the castle’s large interior, J.P. could easily see to what Guinevere was alluding.
“Whoa!” he said. “I like my sex in private.”
“Then you’re not as kinky as I thought. Most everyone at this party enjoys viewing and being viewed.”
“And you?”
“Baby, you’ll never have sex as wild as you’re about to have with me.”
On a large stage, a magnificent orchestra was playing Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 3 in G major. Involved in gluttony or various acts of perversion, no one seemed to notice. There were also armed guards dressed like Spanish conquistadors, complete with body armor, helmets, spears, and swords, stationed at the doors and stairways.
“Sweet thing, you got me licking my chops. What’s with the soldiers?” he asked.
She clasped her long arms around her chest, her smile changing into a pout.
“I thought you had your mind on me and not a bunch of soldiers,” she said. “Did I forget to put on my perfume?”
Putting his arms around her waist, he kissed her neck. “No way,” he said. “I was just wondering if those ugly galoots are bouncers.”
“This castle is Sister Gertrude’s private Vatican, those men her Swiss Army,” she said.
“What the hell for?” he asked.
“Never know when a riot might break out.”
“Ugliest bunch of soldiers I ever seen,” he said. “They don’t even look human.”