Topic: Contracts And Callgirls

BottomOfABottle

Date: 2007-03-09 18:20 EST
"Wake up."

The first fist knocks the cobwebs clear. Pulls him up from under the murk-river of his dreams. Lets him know he ain't all safe an' cuddly an' inside his momma's womb. The second draws a little of the claret, right near his temple. Can't feel lovely.

The wool quilt feels good under my toes. I wriggle them into the fabric. Straddled overtop this louse like a lover gettin' ready for the penetration. Only I aim to penetrate with the heat. Boomdowns swinging calm, closest thing he'll ever see to a tit in his face again.

"Wakey wakey."

Step outside myself for a tick an' look at the pastels. Blueskinned-devilman straddlin' a outta-shape crook banker who draped two pros after rapin' 'em. Normally that's his particulars an' not mine. Ain't once the Scripture changes claws, though.

Lookin' around frantic, now. Knows he's in some trouble but ain't sure yet if'n it's really happenin'. Sad little teddybear brown eyes locked on mine, an' now he's sure. Hop off the bed like a jungle cat on the prowl, barefeet cold an' calm on the floor. Soft an' silent an' I let it sink in.

He goes to lurch up an' try to grab somethin' out the bedside table. That's when he finds out he's tied down to the bed. Tight an' under the whole frame. Some tie 'em to the posts, head an' feet like an 'X.' That shit ain't work for long though. Case someone gets in an' helps him out, easier to untie that way.

This'un's like a straightjacket. Picked up some tips way out east, knots tied in on themselves, constrictors once ya try to escape. Gets 'em scared, but quick.

"I'll pay! I'll p-pay you whatever they're paying! Double! Triple!"

Scared as a field mouse out past his bedtime, now. Strugglin' with the knots and they're cutting into his breathin'. Snap one with a quick knife, just so's he ain't die early on me. Want the satisfaction on this one.

Lean in close over one side an' study him for a minute. A slow, sweet lick of my lips. Smack at the end, delicious.

"Think et's 'bout money. Think et's up fer negotiation."

Feel the left go hot an' flash gold an' somewhere in the distance I can hear him squirming and pissin' his pants an' shouting for help. Can barely make out his pig-squeals an' snuffles for mercy. Hard to hear it over my own laughter. The sick, maniacal kind that always gets 'em. That hollow shite that really turns Morgan's stomach, makes her shiver an' ask me to stop.

Slowly undo the shoulder holsters an' roll up my sleeves. Takin' my time. It dawns on me, the laughter still spillin' outta my bluegrey lips, ain't a act. The laughter ain't some kinda ploy to scare 'im.

Think on it a second while he's kickin', then put it aside for later an' get to work.

BottomOfABottle

Date: 2007-03-23 03:06 EST
Now, how is it, found myself in this jump? Ain't used to go on these kinda details. Lately just been doing errands for the Gypo. Collectin' the scraps he ain't wanna dirty his hands with.

That's my kinda work. Steady pay from one of the city's richest, an' he always finds interestin' things fer me to do. Some'a the dirtiest to drape, the most corrupt to dress up in their fine clover.

This, though, this a whole 'nother creature. This one came to me at The Spur, at the closest thing to a last-call that the ginjoint has, when they kick out everyone who ain't family friends or actually feel the O'Corr red beneath their flesh.

Had one'a the boom-downs half-out after he slipped in the other side the booth. Kinda hard to confuse me with someone who wants company when they're drinkin'. Ain't really the talkative type, and anyone who knows me, knows this.

Shifty, but that ain't the right way to describe him. A bit nervous, an' I ain't blame him, sittin' 'cross from me, I'd be shittin' my pants too. No one in here could've given him a glowin' recommendation on his plan'a comin' over an' openin' his mouth. Surprised he ain't got his teeth knocked out already just for letting my name leave his mouth.

Ain't exactly skinny, an' ain't exactly fat, but ain't exactly average either.. Hard to put a triggerfinger on it, has a sallow face an' a potbelly. Slicked-down brown combover. Must be a little smart, though, ain't let his eyes leave the abyssmal black circles I call eyes. Must sense if he's too jittery, start barkin' an' ain't gonna bother with questions later.

'Bout to set this one straight, leave a dark red example all over the highback boothseat, 'cept he starts speakin' my language right away. Scripture pushed across the table, a heap'a. Says there's more, a mountain somewhere and he'll shovel it all my way, I help him out.

Have Molly bring us a bottle an' two glasses, halfway in's the first time I open my hatch for somethin' other than pourin' the O'Corr's finest down it. Lay it on me. An' he does just that.