by Solomon
Yuri and his five bodyguards entered the strip club like they owned it. Yuri was the youngest Boss, but like a young viper full of venom, he was extremely dangerous. Slim and wiry, he walked on the balls of his feet and seemed to have energy to spare. More cautious than Sergei, his only weakness was the strip club, this strip club in particular.
When he went inside, his bodyguards blocked off an area and only left dancers near Yuri. The dancers were enough, especially the blond with the perky tits named Amanda. She danced over, wearing nothing but a G-string and go-go boots with fuck me heels. Yuri loved blonds.
She seductively straddled him, lifting one leg high so he could see the juicy pussy lips peeking out of her G-string.
“How much for you to go with me?” Yuri asked as she gave him a lap dance.
Amanda shook her hair out of her face and licked her lips then leaned into his ear and said, “I’m sorry baby, but I’d rather not go where you’re going!”
“Huh?” he questioned, not sure if he had heard her correctly over the music.
He would never know because, while she was whispering in his ear, she was also reaching in her boot. She pulled out the razor-sharp surgeon’s scalpel, then quickly cut his throat so deeply that had she encircled his neck, she would have beheaded him.
Blood pulsed everywhere. One of the bodyguards noticed, but it was too late. He barked something in Chechnyan while he pulled out his gun. The other bodyguard followed suit.
Amanda wrapped her legs around Yuri’s waist, rolled and pulled his dead weight on top of her to shield her from the bullets. At the same time, she snatched the pistol that Yuri carried in the small of his back and opened fire. She killed one of the bodyguards, but she was the least of their worries. With their backs turned, they never saw the three Bloods stand up and open fire with fully automatic Uzis. The crowd broke out in frenzy, but within seconds it was over. Amanda and the Bloods made their getaway, leaving nothing but six dead Chechnyans and a story to tell.
Te Amo rode him slowly, savoring every inch of his dick while Enrico covered his body with kisses until he reached the spot where Joey and Te Amo met. He began to lick them from her clit to the base of his dick, causing Te Amo to totally lose it and ride him with wild abandon.
“Fuck, Joey,” she groaned, biting down on her bottom lip. “It’s…so…good…I…can’t…hold…it,” she squealed as she creamed his dick.
She laid her head on his chest, but Joey pulled her up, urging her body forward until she climbed his face and sat on his tongue. Enrico ran his tongue around the head of Joey’s dick, tasting Te Amo’s juices. Then he sat on Joey’s dick, reverse cowgirl style and began to meet Joey’s every thrust with a hungry grind.
Was it possible for one man to bring so much pain and pleasure at the same time? Because while he was giving Te Amo and Enrico mind-blowing pleasure, he was bringing death and destruction to the streets of L.A.
Vladimir’s mansion was a virtual fortress. It sat overlooking L.A. in the Hollywood Hills section. Motion detectors ran along the base of an eight-foot tall privacy fence. Surveillance cameras surrounded the compound, as his bodyguards patrolled the grounds with automatic weapons and guard dogs. Vladimir was by far the most cautious, but he was also the most dangerous.
The limo arrived at his gate and, after careful scrutiny, was let inside. It drove up and then around the circular driveway. It stopped in front of the main entrance and two scantily dressed females got out. Both wore boots up to their knees, short skirts that revealed to the world that they were panty-less as they strutted up the three-step entrance. They were dressed like twins, and their exotic Indian features almost made them identical as well.
Two bodyguards escorted them upstairs to a large bedroom with an even larger bed. It had to be the size of two king-sized beds put together. The whole room was done in red and black, as if they had come to visit Dracula, if one believes in such things. Vladimir liked to model himself after Vlad the Impaler.
When the two girls entered, the bodyguards closed the door behind them. Several seconds later, Vladimir emerged wearing a red robe and carrying a drink.
“It’s good to see you both again. Welcome to my home,” Vladimir welcomed them with a slight bow.
“Oh Vlad,” the shorter one gushed. “I love this bed,” she added, crawling up on it and hiking up her skirt.
The other followed her lead, but instead of getting up in the bed, she leaned behind the other and slid her tongue into her pussy, causing her to let out a passionate gasp.
“I’m glad to see you don’t waste time,” he said, setting his drink down and approaching the bed.
He positioned himself behind the taller one. She tooted her ass up, ready to be entered. However, instead of grabbing her ass, he grabbed her by the chin and back of her head and snapped her neck like a toothpick. Her dead body hit the floor with a thud.
“Neither do I!” he hissed as he grabbed the other one by the hair. But by time he had a firm grip, she had reached into her boot and came out with an ice pick.
She stabbed him in the shoulder, but he backhanded her so hard that she almost lost consciousness and dropped the weapon. He dragged her by the hair to the foot of the bed, wrapped her arms around the post and pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his robe pocket. Once she was cuffed, he examined the wound on his shoulder through the rip in the robe. It was bleeding profusely, but there was little pain to a rock like Vladimir.
“Not bad, but you aim too high,” he chuckled. “A professional would’ve known to come under hand; you would’ve had a better chance of hitting my heart,” he schooled her.
He lifted her head with his hand. She spat in his face. He backhanded blood from her mouth and nose, tasted her spit then wiped the rest away.
“So, we know you are no professional. Who are you, then? Who sent you? If you tell me, I just kill you. You don’t then you will wish you were dead. Talk.”
With her hair in her face and blood dripping from her mouth, she looked like a wild savage, glaring at him.
“You will talk,” he assured her.
Vladimir picked up the ice pick and then stood over her. He held her left hand at the wrist, looked her in the eye, and asked calmly, “Who sent you?”
“Your dead madre, puto,” she spat.
Vladimir stabbed her in the hands three times in quick succession.
She howled in pain.
“Shhh,” he taunted her, caressing her face. “That was nothing if you don’t tell me who sent you.”
“Tu madre,” was all she got out before he plunged the ice pick into her wrist, and then began to wrench it back and forth. She almost passed out.
Vladimir got up close to her and repeated, “Who sent you?”
“Go to hell,” she seethed.
“Very well,” Vladimir remarked then walked around behind her and pulled up her skirt. He looked at her pretty ass and perfectly shaven pussy.
“Tsk, tsk, what a waste,” he mused, contemplating raping her. He then took the ice pick and stabbed her in the pussy.
She let out a loud warble that told him she was reaching her threshold for pain.
“Almost, yes? You tell me now, yes?”
But she kept silent.
He stabbed her again, but this time he pushed the ice pick deeper, plunging into her insides, up to his knuckles. She used all her energy left, reared back causing the ice pick to lodge deeper then brought her weight down on it, causing the tip to protrude outward from her stomach. She then collapsed, blood oozing from her mouth.
“Impressive,” he remarked, as he removed his hand and the ice pick, both covered with blood. “Inexperienced, but impressive.”
She had managed to impale herself without giving Joey up.
“Whoever sent you will soon learn,” Vladimir spat.
He had been onto the girls from day one, but he wanted to find out who sent them. Unable to find out through surveillance, he attempted to find out through torture. Now that he had been outwit
ted, there was nothing left but to send a message.
He called for his bodyguards. Moments later, two entered. They didn’t even blink at the sight of the two dead women.
“Bring me my tools,” he instructed.
Enrico and Te Amo slept with their heads on either side of Joey’s chest, with his arms wrapped around both of them. They looked like a trinity of fallen angels, sleeping peacefully, but their sleep was interrupted by a ringing phone. They all awoke in quick succession. Te Amo reached over and grabbed the receiver, passing it to Joey without speaking, then reclined back into the bed.
“Yeah…yeah. Okay,” he said, then hung up. “Fuck!”
The bass in Joey’s voice jolted the sleep out of Te Amo.
“What’s wrong?”
“Mianna and Anita never checked in,” Joey answered grimly.
“What do you think that means?” Enrico questioned.
Joey looked at him like it was a stupid question.
“It means they’re dead and Vladimir got away,” Joey answered, getting up and pacing the floor butt-naked.
“What about the other two?” Te Amo wanted to know.
“Taken care of. Vladimir’s the only one still breathing.”
The three of them contemplated the implications of what it all meant, but they didn’t have to wait long to find out what happened to the girls. The TV in the bedroom was turned on with the volume down low. A news flash came on and caught Enrico’s eye.
“Look, Joey.”
Joey turned around, recognized The Pulse Nightclub blocked off with police tape, and grabbed the remote to turn the volume up.
“L.A. woke up to a gruesome morning, Phil. I’m in front of The Pulse Nightclub where the headless bodies of two women were found. Their heads weren’t. A man jogging saw them and promptly called the LAPD.”
Joey heard enough. He cut the TV off and threw the remote against the wall.
“Son of a bitch! Fuckin’ cock sucker!” he ranted.
It was the first loss he had taken, and it made him feel personally responsible for the two slain women. After all, they were doing his bidding.
He paced the floor furiously, thirsty for revenge. All caution was thrown to the wind. He was willing to do whatever it took. Then he stopped pacing and smiled because he had locked in on a solution.
Te Amo met his smile with her own.
“So, what are we gonna do?”
“Vladimir wants to send messages. I’m just gonna let him know I got it. Personally.” Joey leered.
Vladimir raced along the Boulevard in his armored 600 Benz. Two bodyguards sat up front and one sat on his left. The sun peeked brightly through the smog, as he contemplated his next move. At first, he thought the girls had been sent by Yuri and Sergei, but once he found out they were dead, he was focused on uncovering his hidden enemy.
“I don’t care what you must do or how much you must pay! Find out!” Vladimir barked into his car phone, then slammed it down. In his mind, it was either the Armenians or the Russians.
Several seconds later, he heard the sound of police sirens. He glanced around and saw the police cruiser with lights flashing behind them.
Whop! Whop!
“I told you no speeding, Lechma,” Vladimir gruffed.
“I was not speeding, Vladimir,” Lechma protested.
Vladimir quickly weighed his options then said, “Pull over.”
Lechma pulled over.
The cruiser stopped behind them. People up and down the street were looking to see what was happening. Two policemen got out—one White, one Black—wearing mirror sunglasses and absolutely no smiles. The White one positioned himself by the backdoor, hand resting casually on his holster. The Black one approached the driver.
“License and registration,” the Black officer ordered.
“Is there a problem, Officer?” Lechma asked, trying to keep the contempt he had for Black people out of his voice.
“I’m asking the questions, you just answer ‘em,” he spat.
Lechma gritted his teeth, but he complied.
The Black officer took one look at the license and remarked, “What is this, a joke? This license is not valid! It’s a forgery.”
“Forgery?” Lechma echoed. “Bullshit.”
“You trying to play with my intelligence? I know fake when I see fake. I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the car. All of you! Now!”
The White officer maintained his position by the backdoor and spoke into the walkie-talkie on his shoulder.
“This is Car 59 requesting backup. Possible UUMV.”
When Vladimir heard that, he told everyone in Chechnyan to get out. He didn’t want a whole bunch of police showing up.
The four of them got out.
“All of you! Hands on the trunk. Assume the position!” the White officer ordered them.
They all complied.
The street was lined with people. It was broad daylight. The cop had called for backup. All of these factors had lulled Vladimir into a sense of security; a lull he would never recover from.
Both the White and Black officer pulled their guns simultaneously. The Black officer shot the driver and the bodyguard from the back seat, point blank in the back of the head in quick succession. The White officer shot the remaining guard then trained his gun on a stunned Vladimir, as a van skidded up and the door slid open. It all happened in seconds. Vladimir never had a chance to react.
“Ay, Vladimir,” the White officer growled. “I got your message.” Then he unloaded three shots into the back of Vladimir’s head. People were running, screaming and ducking as the officers jumped into the van and make their getaway.
Joey straightened his peaked cap, and walked back to the cop car.
With the death of the Chechneyans, Joey and his crew took over the designer drug scene in L.A. The Bloods handled it while Joey kept them supplied and the girls played the face of the organization. Joey Diamonds’ name began to buzz, not only in the streets, but in the industry. Marty cast him in a small role in his latest production—the one Joey was also taking a piece of under the table.
The part was for a gangster. That wasn’t a coincidence; it was deliberate. Joey told Marty, “I’ll only play gangsters.”
“Why would you limit yourself like that? You could easily work your way up to romantic leads,” Marty stressed.
But Joey just shrugged and replied, “I like being the bad guy.” But it was deeper than that. There was always a method to Joey’s madness.
“Hey…Next time, you won’t be so lucky.”
That was Joey’s only line, but Marty said that it brought a chill to his spine.
Joey was a natural and, more importantly, the camera loved him. He hung around Marty, learning the ropes day and night. He let his face be seen around L.A. He wanted everybody to know that Joey Diamonds was in charge.
One month after the Vladimir shooting, Joey was on the set with Marty. Two wrinkled suit-wearing, middle-aged White men made their way across the set and approached Joey.
”Excuse me, could we have a word with you?”
Looking at them—everything about their demeanor screamed cops. But Joey played stupid.
“You just had nine,” Joey retorted.
They flashed their badges.
“This’ll only take a second, Mr. Diamanti,” one assured him.
“If you insist.”
“We do.”
“Then I guess I have no choice, huh?”
Joey led them to one of the trailers, and they went inside. Joey took one of the makeup chairs while the two detectives stood.
“I’m Detective O’Ryan and this is Detective Schmidt,” the shorter, pug-nosed detective introduced.
“And what can I do for you, gentlemen?”
“For starters, apologize.”
“Okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t know she was your wife,” Joey cracked.
O’Ryan snorted a chuckle.
“Now, if that was the case, you’d be ask
ing me for the apology. No, I was thinking more of two officers you left bound and gagged in South Central, while you used their Cruiser and uniforms to whack Vladimir Kaslov.”
“Okay…I’m still waiting for the punch line,” Joey remarked.
“There is none, but there is a bottom line.”
“And you’re taking the scenic route to get to it?”
O’Ryan gave him a leer of a smile.
“Mr. Diamanti, or should I say Joey Diamonds, you’re making quite an impression out here on the Coast. Now that you removed the Chechnyans, who’s next? The Armenians? The Piazza family? Inquiring minds would like to know, Joey.”
“Detective O’Ryan, is it? I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I’m just a struggling actor, trying to make a career outta two bit parts. I’ll probably end up in porn,” Joey replied.
O’Ryan laughed; Schmidt only smiled briefly.
“I like you, Joey, so I’m not gonna bust your balls. This time. But I will paint you a picture: Word is, you’ve got quite an alliance. The Reyes Family out of Miami, the Russians in New York, and now the Bloods. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were planning a coup d’etat.”
“You’re right, you don’t know any better.”
“Maybe, but what I do know is if me and my partner here don’t see any of the action and I mean soon, then you will end up in porn. The receiving end, your end up…in San Quentin. Is that picture clear enough for you, Joey,” O’Ryan threatened.
“Listen, Detective. I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about. If I was half the guy you say I am, maybe I could get laid in this fuckin’ town. But I tell you what I’m gonna do: I’ve always been an avid supporter of the local police back home, so why not here, too? So let’s call this…a donation because sometimes I get parking tickets. I speed occasionally, jaywalk; a real pain in the ass, you know?” Joey offered, handing them a wad of bills.
“Jaywalk, huh?” O’Ryan chuckled. “Yeah, Joey, I never thought much for WOPs. They’re dumb, greasy. But you, you might just grow on me.”
“Yeah, like a cancer,” Joey spat with a smile, but wanting to spit in his face.