THE TAKEOVER - Part 4: The New Boss

Part 1 - The War Council
Part 2 - The Offer
Part 3 - The Armenian Dick Head


I woke up the next morning well enough. Sandra was there and thoughtful enough to have sent someone for some clothes for me. Apparently she had me followed, figured out who Abdulian is and asked the Russians to bring him and his crew in to answer some questions. Of course, her story explaining all this took a good hour when it could've taken a damn sentence. Fucking Sandra, no one cares.

I changed clothes, took a piss and sent one of the Russians out for bagels. Then I went to finally have that chat with Abdulian. He was tied up in a small room, the Russians had beaten him pretty good when they captured him. “The tables have turned,” I said to him, “last time I saw you I was beat up and tied up.”

“And are you going to feed me to your Russian dogs?” he asked.

“You’ve been selling RPGs to the Chinese, Abdulian. The Russians won’t like that.”

“The Chinese? No. The Chinese import their own weapons.” He seemed sincere.

“So they didn’t attack us with your weapons?” I asked.

“Uh… no.” His answer seemed cagy.

“What do you mean, ‘Uh...no.’?” I asked.

He sighed, “In the interest of self preservation, I will say this. Those were my RPGs, but I didn’t sell them to the Chinese.”

I believed him. I thought about the events of the last couple of days. All we had to go on was Ivanov’s assumption that it was the Chinese who attacked him. He’d been encroaching on their territory for months, it made sense. But an old gangster like Ivanov would have many enemies, anyone of whom could have blown up his house and office. “Who did you sell the RPGs to,” I asked.

He chuckled and bits of blood and phlegm shot out of his mouth and splattered onto his shirt, “I sold them to Ivanov two weeks ago.”

I was stunned silent. I believed him. But why? Why would Ivanov bomb himself? Or did he? Is he trying to start a war? Was one of his men behind all this? I fucking hate mysteries. I pondered my next question when in walked two large, Russians with two handguns. One escorted me out while Abdulian begged for his life. The loud gunshot and Abdulian's slow, gurgling death only confirmed my suspicions. Now to prove them.

I went back to Sandra and pushed her for an in with her handler or boss or pimp, whatever you call him. "Just set up a meeting for me. I think I can work out a peaceful way to end all of this."

"It doesn't work that way, Gene," she tried to tell me.

"The only way you and I survive this, is through your pimp."

"Will you stop calling him that? He won't just meet with you on your terms. I'll put in the message, but he makes the calls."

"Just call it in already"

She pulled out her cellphone and began dialing. Then she got a worried expression on her face. “It’s dead,” she said, “someone’s jamming the signal.”

“That would be me,” Ivanov said as he walked into the room looking remarkably un-comatose. There was an ugly Asian man with him, “Allow me to introduce my business partner,Kong Rui Bao.” They looked awfully chummy for two assholes who were supposed to be at war.

The world just turned upside down and took a steaming dump on my head. I just stood there staring at the buddy-buddy crime lords like an idiot.

“While the CIA and the local dick have been running around chasing ghosts, our men have wiped out the Italians, the Albanians and the Columbians. Vegas is now ruled by a single crime-lord,” Kong said

“And which one of you assholes gets to be the boss?” I asked.

They looked at each other and smiled. Ivanov was about to say something, but another damn rocket came crashing through the window and exploded at their feet. This time, there was no doubt, Ivanov and Kong were dead. Sandra and I climbed to our feet and looked through the shattered window in time to see a smiling Wayne Newton wave at us with a fully functional bionic-hand. Newton dropped the rocket launcher at his feet and climbed into his waiting limo. With a screech of tires, he was gone.

“Son-of-a-bitch!” Sandra and I said in unison.

“He planned the whole thing,” I said, “just to take over vegas.”

“Where did he get that hand?” Sandra asked.

I told her some mysteries are best left unsolved. She told me that she hoped she’d never see me again. Then we went our separate ways, but I had a feeling I’d bang her again someday.

THE TAKEOVER - Part 3: The Armenian Dick Head

Part 1 - The War Council
Part 2 - The Offer

I left Sandra half-naked in the SUV and told the Russian goons I'd call when I had some info. I knew Abdulian was in town, and not at his desert warehouse or overseas because he sat three rows in front of me at Cirque du Soleil last night, the dick head, but I needed an address.

I went back to my office and made a few calls. No one was in, so I spent time looking at porn while I waited. Eventually one of my regular snitches, a tweaker named Melvin, called me back. Melvin gave me the number a drug dealer in Henderson who used to play cards with Abdulian. After threatening to turn him into the police, and promising him a bribe, the drug dealer eventually gave me the address of the ridiculous, grandiose thirty-two room house that Abdulian calls home.

I took a ride out to his house and began planning my entrance. The dogs were going to be the biggest problem. I found a couple kids playing in a lot across the street from the house. I offered them $20 now and $20 after if they kept his dogs on the far end of the yard and not killing me. Once I heard the barking, I hopped his fence and found an open door through the laundry room.

His house was weird. I didn't like it. I searched for probably ten minutes before he and his shotgun found me.

"Who are you? Why have you come?" his shotgun seemed to say.

"I've come to ask you a few questions," I said, or something like that. We stared at each other awkwardly for a few seconds. He clearly had the advantage with his shotgun pointed at me. I began to wonder if I could draw my own gun, and even things out, before he shot me. I’d need a distraction.

I pointed behind Abdulian and said, “What’s that!?” Abdulian didn’t bite, he just shot me in the chest. Luckily, his gun was loaded with rock salt. I wasn’t dead, just in extreme pain from a hundred salt filled wounds… also, I landed on my keys when I hit the floor.

“I never kill an intruder with guns, Mr…. Monroe, isn’t it? I leave that to the dogs. But I do like to salt the meat for them.”

“You’re a cruel bastard,” I groaned, “saddling those poor dogs with high cholesterol.”

He chuckled and said, “The price of an enjoyable life, Mr. Monroe. The price of an enjoyable life.” Then he stomped on my face with his boot.

I woke up, hanging upside down from a tree, a pack of hungry rottweilers circling beneath me. It was night. I was just a few hours away from becoming dog shit when I heard a crash and shouting. A car had crashed the gate and was speeding towards me. The dogs scattered. I couldn’t see who was driving, just the blinding headlights.

Two large men stepped out of the front doors. One sprayed bullets in Abdulian's general direction. He and his crew ran, unprepared for the incursion. The other cut me down without saying a word. He dragged me to the car and tossed me in the backseat. Then we made our escape. Sandra was in the backseat with me, calling me an idiot. I tried to reach up and grab her titties, but my arms were sore and useless.

They took me back to the incognito hospital and put me in a bed next to Ivanov. That asshole was still unconscious. Then I passed out.

To Be Continued...

Part 4 - The New Boss

THE TAKEOVER - Part 2: The Offer

Part 1 - The War Council

I stood up, my ears still ringing. The room was in shambles. Ivanov’s two Russian goons were torn to pieces. Sandra was on all fours under the desk, “Damn her ass looks good,’ I thought. She seemed to be okay. I looked for Ivanov and found him lying on the floor, his face covered in blood. I checked his pulse. He was alive. I slapped his face and called out to him, unable to hear my own voice over the damned ringing. He didn’t wake up.

Someone pulled me away from Ivanov, some more of his men had come in with guns drawn. They were rushing around the room like chickens with their heads cut off. I stumbled through the madness and found the wet bar. I opened the bourbon and took a long swig. My hearing was starting to come back, I could hear the others yelling, but it sounded like it was coming from another room.

I took three deep breaths, then I took another swig. And then I saw the second rocket. I didn’t even bother to duck. Luckily, it hit a little further east. It was still loud as hell. I saw two russian guys run in and drag Ivanov out of the room. I grabbed Sandra out from under the table and we followed.  We all ended up in the garage and climbed into an SUV. Then we raced to safety.

As we drove out of the garage, I was handed an assault rifle & told to watch our backs.

No one followed us. We drove to what seemed to be an empty office building, but inside there was a small hospital staff. They took Ivanov and left me and Sandra alone. I set the rifle down and realized that I had taken the bottle of bourbon with me. Thank god for foresight. Sandra was texting on her phone or something. I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to ask, “Sandra, who do you work for?”

She looked confused, “What?”

“For whom do you work?”

She ignored me and went back to her phone. Something inside of me wanted to grab her and slap her for it. I wanted to shake her until she gave up everything she knew. I reached over and started pressing buttons on her phone. She collapsed into tears. Fucking women.

“There there, honey,” I consoled her. “At least you still got that ass.” That was all I had. I wish you could just talk to women like they were normal people. As Sandra sat there crying, I took the opportunity to lift her wallet from her purse. I planned to take it into the bathroom later and quietly riffle through it, but I couldn’t resist a peek.

“The CIA!” I exploded.

Sandra looked at me then at her purse. “You stole my wallet? While I was over here crying my eyes out?” She yelled. “For a moment, I almost thought you were human.”

“You’re one to talk lady, you’re a goddamn CIA sex-operative.” I retorted. “And why are you all worked up anyway? What kind of CIA agent gets all cry-faced after a few explosions?”

“Like you said, I’m a sex-operative,” she said with disgust, “this isn’t the kind of action I normally see.”

I felt kind of bad for attacking her while she was vulnerable. She was only a woman after all, and she had a fantastic ass. I took a swig of bourbon and offered the bottle to Sandra as a peace offering. She looked at me skeptically for a moment before grabbing the bottle and taking a drink.

“So, why is the CIA tangled up in a Vegas crime war?” I asked.

She took a few deep breaths before finally letting out with it: "The CIA just wants a piece."

"Of what, Vegas?"

She nodded, "We can't have the Chinese or the Russians making moves like this. We tried approaching the Italians in the 70's. That was no good. We need white in charge. Making the rules and enforcing them."

“But why, what’s any of this have to do with national security?” I asked.

“Vegas is one of the largest recreational drug markets in the world,” she explained. “We need to control where those drugs come from. Subtle changes in international drug trafficking could result in certain areas around the world destabilizing. And whenever an area get unstable, they blame the USA, and turn into a terrorist threat.”

It all made sense, "That's why you were so interested in Wayne Newton. You wanted him as your pawn. I'm guessing he didn't want to play ball."

"We can't have a star either. Newton is too high-profile and he has secrets even we can't discover. That was why we came to you."

"Uh huh. So when he goes looking for revenge the CIA won't be in his sights. You came to me for action lady, not intel. You gave me fucking grenades!"

"Like I said, Mr Monroe, we need white in charge. That's why we came to you. We left you with a large sum of money and armed security. We had to be sure you wouldn't piss it all away in a few days."

"Aww... I totally did," I sighed.

"Listen, I'll tell you right now that if you get your shit together, I can station twenty men here and at your disposal, just to start. We just need to know that you are willing and able to do what we need you to do."

"No," I said very quickly. I probably should have thought it over for a little longer, but I just know I'd get assassinated. She was offering me the keys to the city, and along with them, a shiny red target to hang on my ass. The truth is, they were probably only interested in me because they figured I'd be easy to control. Part of me wanted to prove them wrong, but I was better off with Ivanov in charge, I had a good relationship with the ugly Russian. But as long as Kong was blowing shit up, the CIA were gonna be sticking their noses in things.

“If you accept our offer,” Sandra unbuttoned the top button of her shirt as she spoke, “I could be made a permanent member of your staff.” Sandra was the finest piece of woman I’d ever stuck my dick in. The offer just got a whole lot sweeter, but I still couldn’t do it. I can barely balance my checkbook, I couldn’t run Vegas.

I needed to think, and I do my best thinking when there aren’t any women around, so I decided to hit the streets, alone. There’s only one place in Nevada to buy heavy weaponry… from a small Armenian man named Jalal Abdulian. I wanted to have a little chat with Jalal about those RPGs I’d been dodging all morning. And luckily, I knew just how to find the little bastard.

To Be Continued...

Part 3 - The Armenian DickHead
Part 4 - The New Boss

THE TAKEOVER - Part 1: The War Council

I was out on a date with Double D. She begged me to take her to see Cirque du Soleil. We had a nice steak dinner first, then took a cab to the show. I got good and drunk and we ended up at D’s place. When I got back to my office the next morning I found two armed Russians inside waiting for me.

They escorted me to the massive casino that just opened on the strip; Ivanov’s casino. Ivanov was in his office, and he was obviously out of sorts. “My men waited at your office all night, Mr Monroe. Why?”

“A woman,” I replied, suspiciously. “What’s going on, Ivanov?”

“Someone bombed my house, Mr Monroe!” He was angry, but not at me thankfully. “Some piece of shit bombed my house! My brother is dead!”

It turns out while I was asleep a Chinese mafioso or whatever you call him bombed Ivanov’s house, killing his brother and a few lackies hanging around. Ivanov and his wife and children were also in the house, but were not near the blast. I knew this was going to happen sooner or later. And now Ivanov wants to drag me into this fart storm.

Truth be told, I’d already made some Chinese enemies when I busted up Kong Rui Bao’s hooker ring. If Kong and Ivanov were going to war, the sensible thing to do would be to call my pimp friend Ronnie and head to Cancun with a few of his bitches. But if I had to get involved, Ivanov’s side was really my only option.

Ivanov made a phone call and in walked two large men in too tight suits and angry expressions. One was blonde and looked like Ivan Drago’s older meaner brother. The other was a young Joseph Stalin. “These are my… cousins,” Igor said, “Sergi and Valeri. They flew in this morning.” As the two men sat down, I realized, with no small amount of pants-wetting terror, that I had somehow become part of Igor Ivanov’s war council.

“Gentlemen,” Ivanov began, “Perhaps my secretary can get you something to drink while we’re waiting?”

Waiting for what, I wondered as I ordered my bourbon straight up.

A few minutes later, the door opened. “Ah, the final member of our party has arrived,” Igor said with a smile. I turned in my seat and looked into a familiar pair of tits. “This is Sandra,” Igor continued, “She represents an interested party.”

I flashed Sandra a friendly smile and she averted her eyes and sat down as far away from me as possible.

"Now," began Ivanov, "we start with Kong Rui Bao, the boss. We all know the name, but has anyone ever seen his face?"

Nobody spoke up. Thinking about it now, I had also never seen his face. "This, gentlemen and lady, is because he is not here in Las Vegas. He was here once eleven years ago when the Chinese first dug their slanted claws into this horrible town. He then left, leaving his head enforcer in charge. The triad bosses in China think he's here. Lu Peng Heng thinks he's in China. He is, in fact, in New York city. I just flew in from the Big Apple, where I saw Mr. Kong arguing on the street with a hotdog vendor."

I was stunned silent by his intel, but could it be true?

"We cannot get to Kong, but we can make him come to us. Right now there are 200 Russian brothers on their way to Las Vegas. In two-day's time, we will storm the Chinese compound and kill every man, woman and child with the exception of Lu Peng Heng. He is going to be our bait. Lu and Kong will then lead us to triad headquarters in Hong Kong. You four are here because I have special missions for all of you."

It was right about then that I saw a funny looking bird flying at the window. I was about to say something clever about how stupid birds are when I realized that it was an RPG. I dived behind Sergi and Valeri just as the window exploded with a deafening boom.

To Be Continued...

Part 2 - The Offer
Part 3 - The Armenian Dick Head
Part 4 - The New Boss

The Hypochondriac Syndicate

I’d spent the last half hour crawling around on my office floor with a gun in my hand. My back was sore, my knees were scraped and the fucking mouse who ruined my corn flakes still wasn’t shot. I could picture him in the walls casually munching on my cereal. Fucking rodent! I fired four shots into the wall. That’s when I heard screams from the thrift store next door. “Whoops,” I said to myself. I quietly knocked over some furniture and scattered some papers to make it look like there’d been a struggle, that should explain the shooting.

I went next door to see if anybody was shot. One of the bullets had grazed the arm of a thirty-something redhead with a great rack. Maybe not the typical way to meet a woman, but hey, who gives a shit? I went to apologize for shooting her and see if I could get her number.

Her name was Tricia. I liked her immediately and I was pretty positive that if I could get her to shut the fuck up about her bullet wound for a minute I could close the deal. I offered to drive her to the hospital in my new Lincoln Town car. She accepted. I was in.

It was a bit of an awkward ride for a few minutes before I broke the ice. "Are you from out of town?"

"I just got a job here last week..."

"Stripper?" I asked.

"Yeah. I can't believe this happened. This sort of thing always happens to me." She whined.

"Yeah. Same here. I was just sitting in my office reading a book about Machiavelli when some lowlife animals bust in and start shooting. I chased them out pretty quickly though. Happens all the time. Nice shorts by the way. What are those, cotton?"

“Polyester.”

I reached over and rubbed the fabric of her shorts between my thumb and forefinger. She didn’t protest, so I rubbed her thigh a little bit. Still no protest. “You know,” I said, “that scratch doesn't really need a hospital, just a band-aid.” She looked at her arm, which had stopped bleeding, and then smiled at me.

Two minutes later, I was getting a blowjob in an alley behind the Riviera. She did some nice things with her tongue, but she kept making this really distracting slurping noise. I pressed down on the back of her head, and the slurping noise turned into a much more pleasant gagging noise.

Afterwards, I was cleaning myself up with an old necktie and Red said, “You know, it’s funny, me meeting a P.I. I wasn’t kidding when I said this sort of thing always happens to me...”

‘Here we go,’ I thought, ‘A stripper never just sucks your dick in an alley for the fun of it, they always want something.’ I figured the least I could do was hear her out before I kicked her to the curb, literally.

She talked for at least five solid minutes explaining that she thought an ex boyfriend followed her to Vegas and had been discretely terrorising her by ruining her jobs and spreading rumors around her neighbors. She seemed a little paranoid, but that’s how a P.I. makes his money. Also she said she didn’t have money, just blowjobs and such. What’s a man in my position to do?

I went around her neighbors first to ask if anyone had been asking about her or talking about her. I talked to three people who all confirmed a man fitting her ex’s description had been telling them she was a convicted felon and to lock their doors and windows. Then I went to the club where she had recently been fired. I was there getting lap dances for four hours before I saw him at the buffet. I struck up a conversation with him about the nasty, old chicken wings. He brought up Tricia.

His name was Bill. Bill told me a long tale about how she ruined his life because he wouldn’t continue to support her crystal meth habit. She was a heavy drinker who would get abusive, then call the cops to say he’d beaten her. I really felt for the guy. But who was telling the truth? I went home to do some private investigating on them both.

After less than an hour of research, I came to the conclusion that Tricia was a horrible human being and deserved to be treated like the trash she is. I figured I’d better get in a few more blow jobs while I still could and called her up.

Tricia showed up at my office with two other strippers, Betty and Veronica. I never actually bothered to learn their names, but one was blonde and the other was a blackhead, I mean she had black hair. Turns out they were having problems with their boyfriends too, and Tricia had recommended my services. Before I even asked any questions, I pulled down the murphy bed and we had a menage a… four, I guess.

Then it was down to business. Betty and Veronica had made a sex tape with their boyfriends, Archie and Jughead, and now the boys were blackmailing them, threatening to put it on the internet. “But you’re strippers,” I said, “Who cares?” That’s when I found out that Betty and Veronica weren’t actually strippers, but real people with jobs and futures. I also found out that there was a shocking connection between Tricia’s ex and the other two guys: Each one was a doctor and had lost his license for malpractice. The girls didn't offer this bit of info. I discovered it during my routine private investigating right in front of them. I kept it to myself. Something was off. I didn't know what these chicks were up to, but I instantly regretted inviting them to my office.

I told them I had an early appointment in the morning and kicked them out. I really needed to clear my head. After watching them leave together in a taxi, I drove down to the strip for some bourbon and blackjack. I was doing great at the tables. Up about $1200. Then I lost half of it on a single spin of roulette. Fucking red!

My next step was still unclear. The smartest move would be to interview all the men individually and hear their side of the story. Or try to find internet records on how they lost their licenses. That all seemed tedious and lame to me, so I decided to focus on the chicks instead and probably bang them some more.

Since there was three of them and only one of me and I never even tried to learn those other girls' names, I was going to need some help tailing them. It also occurred to me at that time that I could have charged the other girls money if I hadn't assumed they were strippers. Damn it.

I called Tommy the Tooth for help. “I need your help Tommy, I need to find two women, one with blonde hair one with black hair. Their boyfriends are both doctors who lost their licenses to malpractice, and they both know a redheaded stripper named Tricia.”

“Tricia Reynolds? who just got fired from Crazy Tits?”

“Jesus, Tommy, how did you know?”

“I know a guy who heard a rumor. Seems that she’s been running a medical malpractice scam with two local girls and a team of hypochondriacs.”

“What’s the scam?”

“Not sure yet. But at least six doctors have lost their licenses and one hypochondriac is dead.”

Tommy gave me addresses for the two other women. He probably gave me their names also, but I must have forgotten to write them down. I decided to pay a visit to Betty, because she had the tightest pussy and made the cutest little squeals during the banging, but I’d still need help keeping tabs on the other two.

I went to bed early because I knew I would have to be at Betty's place before she left for work. I was up at 7 am. I drove out of the way to hit a drive-thru. By the time I rounded the corner near her house she was pulling out of her driveway. I was pretty pissed off because I was hoping to catch her right out of the shower. I followed her to a small office building about forty minutes away from the strip. There were nine cars parked around it. I didn't recognize any of them. Then another car pulled up. It was Tricia.

I waited around for two hours before they all dispersed. Veronica was there and a bunch of other chicks; all fat and ugly. The three girls I knew were the only good looking ones. Ugh. I decided I was going to have to follow one of the gross ones to finally figure out what the fuck was going on.

I picked the one who looked the most slutty and followed her to a McDonald's. From there she went to the emergency room. There was already one of the other women from the office there, and two more pulled in over the next hour. It was time for some action.

I drove around back and found a door into the laundry room. I put on some semi-dirty scrubs with the cap and face mask. I peeked through every door and window until I saw one of them. She was alone in a room wearing a gown.

I went in to examine her before diagnosing her as terminally ugly. She started telling me about her lady symptoms as I closed the blinds. I was momentarily mesmerized by the way her second and third chins seemed to swell like a bullfrog as she spoke. I snapped out of it and put my colt in her mouth.

“Shut your yap and start talking!” I hissed. She started trembling and pissed herself. Then she convulsed a lot and passed out. I figured, because she was fat, that she must be having a heart attack, so I retrieved the defibrillator from the corner of the room. I messed with the dials and knobs at random until the machine face  showed a pleasing display of lights. I pressed one of the paddles into each of her floppy titties, then I said, “Clear!” and zapped her

After two or three zaps, she was dead, smoke billowed from her charred tits where I’d zapped her. This case was going to be harder than I thought. I quietly left the room and went to find one of the other uglys.

Attempt number two. The second woman was already being examined by another doctor, so I leaned casually on the wall outside her room and listened. The doctor was speaking, “I’ve told you before, Cynthia, you don’t have Aids or Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, and I’m not giving you any more medication.”

“Yes doctor,” she replied, “but I’m not here for that. You’ve been so nice to me, that I wanted to introduce me to my friend Tricia. I have a picture.”

The doctor took the picture. “Yes,” he said, “She’s very pretty.”

“Her number is on the back.”

Just then, I saw the last two women walking towards the pharmacy, each with a prescription. I followed them and perused the ice cream freezer in the pharmacy while they had the scripts filled. One was for a three month supply of oxycontin. The other was for a three month supply of vicodin. Both from the prescription pad of Dr Charles Ackert.

I bought a fudgesicle and and wandered around until I found Dr Charles Ackert's office. It was obvious that he had just moved into this office. No furniture or lame art or magazines in the waiting room. And a quick glance through the receptionist window showed the back office in disarray. I waited for a few minutes and saw him leaving. On his way out, the receptionist wished him luck on his date.

I followed him to a restaurant and sat at the bar. I had a great view of his table through the mirror. I had the bartender set me up four shots of bourbon so as not to look suspicious. I had pounded the shots and was sipping a coke when Betty walked in.

'Shit!' I thought to myself. 'She's had my dick in her mouth, she might recognize me.' Then I laughed pretty hard for a few seconds. Then I made eye contact with Betty through the mirror. She got nervous when she saw me, she wasn’t sure what to do. I raised my glass and nodded at her reflection, signaling her that she should go about her date.

She sat down at the good doctor’s table and smiled prettily at him. I watched. They ordered drinks, and so did I. After about a half hour, I stood up and got her attention. I nodded my head toward the restrooms and headed that way.

A moment later, Betty followed me into the men’s room and I locked the door. “What are you doing here?” she asked innocently.

“Shut your cock-hole!” I replied. “I’ve figured it all out. You and the other two cocksuckers are using your feminine wiles to get these poor saps to prescribe hard drugs to known hypochondriacs. The hypos take their fill and you sell the surplus on the street. If anyone gets wise, you just say that the doctors were fooled by the hypochondriacs and you were just their innocent girlfriends. A few doctors lose their licenses, and a few hypos die, but hey you got your profit, right?”

She stared at me for a moment, dumbfounded by my awesome detective skills. Then she stared at me a moment longer, and I began to wonder if I’d gotten it wrong somewhere. She stared at me a third moment and I was sure I must be completely wrong. I was thinking about saving face by saying that I was only joking.

Finally, she spoke, “What are you going to do? Are you going to tell the police?”

Confronting her in the bathroom was as far as I’d planned. I needed to think for a second. While I was thinking, Betty gave me a pouty look that melted my heart, sending all the blood therein to my penis.

“Fuck!” I said. “I want ten percent! And regular pussy from all three of you. And anal.”

Betty agreed, and we negotiated a sex schedule (which began there in the men’s room). Then Betty went back to her date and I went back to my office, hoping to kill that damn mouse before he ate anymore of my favorite cereal.

The Evils of Evangelicalism

I was in old town playing black jack. Gettin' played is more like it. I was down about $400 before my luck started to turn. I remember that part pretty clearly. The rest is a little hazy, but here’s what I do remember: A young couple came to play at the table with me. Young people don’t usually hang around old town. They like the glitz and boners of the strip. That was the only thing that seemed odd. Other than that they were pretty standard as far as Vegas goes; drunk, loud, good-looking, but not too good-looking. They could have put the pharmaceuticals in my bourbon. Or maybe it was the drink girl or whoever’s in the back pourin' watered-down bourbons. I guess none of that matters when you find yourself chained to a wall in a basement.

I tried to dislocate my thumbs to slip out of the shackles, but it hurt really bad so I gave up on the idea. At least I still had my pants on, I know it sounds weird, but if I get raped in a basement, I want to remember it. I decided to check my surroundings for clues. There was light coming in from a window high up on one wall. There was an old couch in the corner, flower print, worn out in places. A washer and dryer that looked maybe ten to twelve years old. A set of wooden stairs going up to a closed door. Some cardboard boxes with things like, “X-mas decorations,” written in magic marker. And there was a ragged P.I. with a migraine and a sore thumb chained to the wall. It looked like the basement of a typical suburban home.

I looked up above me and saw the bolt holding my chains to the wall looked a bit flimsy. I put all my weight onto the chains and wriggled about until I pulled it out the wall and fell to the floor. My watch told me it was about ten after six a.m., hopefully my captors were heavy sleepers. I stacked a couple boxes and busted the window to make my escape.

The fresh air was nice and cool. I crept to the street and looked back. I didn't recognise the house, address or street. 2115 Maple. I hid my chains as best I could and walked a few blocks over to a Denny's.

I ordered the grand slamwich and tried to pick the lock on my chains with the butter knife while I waited. By the time my food arrived, I’d managed to bend the tip of the knife pretty good, but still no progress on the lock. The waitress gave me a dirty look, and I decided not to tip her. In fact, I decided not to pay for my meal at all, fuck Denny’s!

After Breakfast, I found a payphone and made a few calls. The first call was to my bookie to place a bet on the UNLV Basketball game, I had a good feeling about this one. The second was to Sergeant Griffen to look up the address of the house I woke up in, I didn't give him any of the details about my captivity. The third call was to a guy I know with a circular saw and a surgeon's touch, these chains were really starting to chafe.

After a tense twenty minutes of having a convicted felon sawing at my extremities, I took a taxi to my office to get cleaned up. I had the guy drop me two blocks up and sneaked my way to the corner. There were two guys watching my place. Big, ugly guys. Well, one of them kinda looked like me. He was okay. I figured I’d murder him, then follow the other stooge back to headquarters.

I pulled my 1911 Colt and adjusted my sack. I was just about to spring into action when Sergeant Griffen pulled up between us. He didn’t see me and he didn’t notice them. Oblivious fuck. But it worked out perfectly. They took off on foot as soon as they saw him stop. I walked right past the oblivious sergeant and tailed them two blocks to their car. I got the plate number and watched them head west.

Back at my office, Griffen was waiting with some coffee, a box of donuts and some disturbing news about my captors. The house belonged to a local man named John Smithson, he was the head of the Las Vegas Evangelical Association. There was a big evangelical convention in town, and I may or may not have had sex with the daughter of a prominent Bible belt minister, and she may or may not have been roofied (don’t get the wrong idea, I thought she was just drunk, it was totally innocent).

While I had Griffen at my office, I asked him to use the computer in his car to run the plates of the guys outside my office. They belonged to a guy named Frank Wells who lived on the East side. Frank had a long list of priors, mostly violent. I figured it was time to go and make his acquaintance. I grabbed a cup of coffee and half a dozen donuts, bid Griffen good day and struggled my way into another taxi.

The Wells home was both quaint and ugly. There was a woman’s car parked in the driveway. Someone was home. I checked for dogs (none) then hopped the fence into the backyard. I crept around slowly until I heard a voice. A woman was inside and on the phone. She seemed annoyed. I found the back door and let myself in.

The woman was blonde and homely. I figured Frank would have to be home at some point, so I hid in the closet to try and get the drop on him. After about forty-five minutes there, I really had to take a dump, fucking coffee, I mean I had to take a dump before I stepped into the closet, but now it was pretty much an emergency. I couldn't hear anything so I cracked the closet door and took a peek. The bathroom was close and open.

As slowly as humanly fucking possible, I crossed the hallway towards the bathroom, gun drawn. I got within arms-reach when I heard the gasp. I stepped into the bedroom,

letting my colt give her the evil eye. She screamed and tried to run for the door so I subdued and gagged her and tied her to a chair. Then I dragged her chair into the shitter and could not hold back any longer.

The woman looked horrified, and I can’t say I blame her, the smells that were coming out of my body were truly horrendous. Maybe it was something I ate last night, I couldn't remember. when I was done, I flushed and left room. I closed the door with her inside. Then I went and sat on the couch and turned on the tv to check the basketball scores. Fucking UNLV!

I watched some more tv, then I went into the kitchen to make myself some lunch. The turkey sandwich made me a bit drowsy, so I lay down on the couch and took a nap. It was dark when I woke up, still no sign of Frank.

I went back to the bathroom, and after taking a piss, I ungagged the woman. “Where’s Frank?” I asked.

“Who?”

“Frank Wells, the guy who lives here!”

“Wells?” She seemed confused. “Frank Wells lives two doors down and across the street.”

I apologized for the mix up, put her gag back in and took my leave.

I crossed the street & hopped some fences to get to the back of the house two down. There was a lone man watching tv in the front room. I crept in through the back. It was him alright. The man outside my office. I quietly checked the rest of the house first to avoid any further bullshit from the fairer sex, then made my trademark move. I sneaked up behind the man and shot him in the knee.

"Who stationed you outside my office?" I demanded, narrowly avoiding saying orifice.

"Shit!" He cried in horrible pain. I saw him reach for something under the pillows and plugged him again.

"I'm not leaving til I get some answers and I have plenty of bullets." That reminded me, I was almost out of bullets.

"Alright! I'll talk. I'll talk. Just please... I have kids."

"Shut up about your kids already. Who sent you to watch my office?"

Frank proceeded to tell a lengthy tale about how the evangelicals were using their pull with local government to secure early release for prisoners that converted to Christianity. But once these convicts were released, they became indentured servants to the church, forced to be the muscle in a complicated scheme to outlaw gambling in Las Vegas, and also get rid of the Jews.

This of course, had nothing to do with me, they were angry with me because I “raped” a minister’s daughter. But now that I was involved, I had to find a way to stop these bastards; Vegas without gambling would be like A-Rod without herpes… inconceivable.

I had to start somewhere, and it all led back to Smithson. I knew then and there that I was going to have to Google that asshole. Maybe even destroy the man. But before all that, I was going to have to deal with the Frank Wells dilemma. I couldn't risk him warning the Evangelicals about me, but Griffen had run the plates for me and that would put me on the top of the suspects list. I didn't really want to drive out to the desert and dig a hole and so on. So I tied him up and gagged him and went over to my favorite all you can eat buffet in old town. He'd be fine for a few days.

After dinner I got myself a hotel room. Mostly because I always get diarrhea from that place and I didn't think I was going to make it back to the office before I shit my pants. I had the front desk send up a laptop and a bottle of Wild Turkey so I could get some work out of the way before I got too drunk.

I pooped, took a couple shots, then started my research. I read damn near every article I could find on Smithson and one thing stood out as an obvious weakness: his hatred for the queers. Not just him, but all the nutjobs who listen to him and sent him money. I figured I'd blackmail him with pictures of him romantically entangled with another man. First I'd have hire a queer. I wasn't going to seduce any man with my physique.

I'll be the first to admit that the gay hooker ads are scary and confusing and a little gross. But after a few more drinks…. I mean, hey, I’ve gone back door on a few ladies, really, what’s the difference? But I wanted the make sure I got the best gay, and I could hardly tell one from another.  so I called my old buddy, Sal Silvio, the Vegas clothes king.

Sal came in a hurry, and I explained the situation to him. “I must admit, Gene,” he said, “when you asked me to meet you at a hotel in the middle of the night, I hoped you had other ideas, but I do love to fuck with the Jesus freaks, so I’m in.”

“Great, ‘cause i’m in over my head with these fa… homos.”

Sal stared at me for a couple of seconds and then looked at the gay hooker on the laptop screen. “We need a gay jock, someone who can get Smithson talking about sports, keep his guard down, make him think he’s just one of the guys, and before you know it they’re going down on each other in the men’s room.”

“That really works?” I asked thinking about all the narrow escapes I must have had in sports bars over the years.

“It happens all the time.”

We spent about an hour pouring through the ads until Sal finally found our guy. It cost me $200 to get him to come over to the hotel. He said his name was Jeff. I had to make sure he was fully on board before we laid out our plan for him.

"Let me ask you something, Jeff. Suppose you're walking down the street and you come across two bars. One of them is a sports bar with a bunch of men drinking and watching basketball. The other is a gay bar with a bunch of men drinking and watching ballet or something. Which do you go to and why?"

"It depends on which one has the man who's paying me," He said as he was obviously becoming more and more uncomfortable.

"He wants you to seduce a preacher," Sal announced. I shot him a look of angered disappointment. "What!? He wants to get to the good part."

"I'm in," said Jeff, rather nonchalantly.

"Oh, well good."

We spent the next few hours hatching a plan to get Jeff alone with Smithson and Smithson drunk and horny. According to the gays, it was going to be easier than I could ever hope.

I disguised myself with a fake mustache and a pair of glasses, and we all headed down to the convention center, and started scoping out the nearby bars. We found Smithson in the fourth bar we tried, a little dive called Charlie’s. Jeff went to work his magic, and I went to the john to plant a few hidden cameras. I had a few cameras left over so I planted them in the women’s room, to prove to myself that I wasn’t gay.

I then planted myself at a dark table in the corner to watch the action. Smithson was with a group of churchy assholes, and Jeff had already wormed his way into the group. They were all talking and laughing. It was impressive to watch really, Jeff was an artist. He casually moved about the group, all the while getting closer to Smithson until he was right next to him. He then placed himself between Smithson and the group and slowly moved the two of them to a more secluded area. Smithson was alone with a gay before he ever knew what hit him. Start to finish, it only took Jeff about twenty-five minutes before he and Smithson were heading to the bathroom together.

I got excited as the bathroom door closed behind them, then I realized what I was getting excited about and got uncomfortable.

After a good ten minutes, Jeff stepped out of the bathroom looking pretty shaken. He hurried to and out the front door without ever looking my way. Mission accomplished I assumed. I waited another few minutes for Smithson to make his exit so I could retrieve my cameras, but he never came out.

I motioned to Sal to stay put then I crept into the shitter without drawing any attention. I didn't see anyone in there. I walked down the line of stalls and saw one closed. Underneath the door I could see Smithson lying on the floor. Then I noticed the blood. I grabbed my cameras and wiped my prints as fast as I could and walked out the same way Jeff did.

I walked about four blocks and found Jeff crying in the street. I picked him up and made him walk with me. "What the fuck happened in there?" I demanded.

"I thought I had him. He wanted it, I know it. We were at the urinal together and I touched him. He pulled out a gun and said he hates faggots. He was going to kill me. I had to ... I had to do it."

I was speechless so we just kept walking. I wondered how long it'd be before Sal or anyone else figured out Smithson was dead in the john. I hailed the first taxi I saw and got us back to my office. The poor fag was so traumatized he just curled up on my couch and cried himself to sleep. What a little girl, I thought to myself.

All this gay stuff had made me horny… I mean… for women. I went back to my motel room and called a lady hooker. I banged her twice then threw her out and went to sleep. In the morning, I got a call from Griffen, Smithson had been found shortly after I’d left the bar. Griffen remembered that I’d been asking questions about Smithson’s house earlier, so naturally he wanted to make sure I had nothing to do with his death. Some people are so untrusting. I gave Griffen Jeff’s name and number and told him to leave me out of it, I really was innocent this time. Well, innocetish.