Eviscerating the Snake - The Complete Trilogy

by Ashley Fontainne

  Surely it couldn’t be this fucking easy?

  I reached down and tried the handle, and almost jumped for glee when it responded to my touch and opened, revealing the present inside. I quickly snatched the tape off the floor and quietly shut the door, feeling like a kid that just discovered where the Christmas presents were stored and was about to sneak off and take a peek at them. I couldn’t believe my great stroke of luck!

  Now that I had the much sought after tape, I needed–no, I wanted to–watch it and see just what the illustrious Nick Rancliff was holding over Ralphie’s head although I was pretty damn sure I already knew. God knows Ralph had fucked his way through just about the entire state, and I assumed it was one of these sessions with some high profile piece of ass that would burn him. Damn, I knew there was some hidden reason why Piper was now an equity partner since she sure didn’t have the clientele or the high level accounting acumen to back up being a partial owner. I assumed when Ralph announced his decision to nominate her two weeks ago, as he did with all the other partners, that Piper had finally sunk her claws into him and possessed something to hold over his head in exchange for her promotion. None of us dared balk at any of Ralph’s decisions, lest he ruin our lives, so we all signed the agreement and let it go.

  I stood in the darkness for just a moment, debating upon whether I should go back inside the club and watch it on Montrae’s VCR in his office—which I knew he had since he bragged about taping the girls as they gave their client’s “special” service in the back for those “rainy” days when he needed some financial leverage—or if I should just jump in my car and take my little treasure home and watch it there. Of course, if I left now, right in the middle of the party, then I stood the risk of Nick and Ralph putting the puzzle pieces together that I was the one that stole their tape, so I decided to watch it in Montrae’s office and remain at the party, thereby averting any attention in my direction from a questionable absence at one of my favorite places.

  I unbuttoned my shirt, stuffed the little bundle of joy under my armpit, and walked back inside. I smiled when I realized no one even looked at the door as they were all engrossed in watching Shantilly, the buxom blonde that was grinding on the pole at center stage, doing her thing for the cash that was leaping out of the pockets of my colleagues and landing on stage beneath her black leather thigh-high boots. I didn’t see Nick or Ralph in the crowd but only briefly looked as I walked up to the bar where Montrae was and motioned for him. Although a rather nasty little man that would never have cut it in this world as anything other than a slimy titty-bar manager, I paid him well for the services that his club offered, as well as some “extra-curricular” activities I hosted all over the country, so he immediately began salivating like a Pavlov dog as he made his way over to the end of the bar, practically tripping over himself as he smelled the money that soon would be in his pocket.

  “Montrae, I need to make a private call. Where can I go to make one around here and not be disturbed?” I said, sliding a fifty over to him. He smiled, revealing the crooked, golden teeth that gleamed under the lights and said as he reached into his pocket and handed me the key, “My office, jefe, of course! Mi casa is su casa, amigo!” His Columbian accent was thick and heavy. “Take all time you need! Want someone to dial the number for you, jefe?”

  I smiled broadly at him as I took the worn-down key from his greasy paw, amused at his not so demure attempt to offer up a piece of pussy to me, wrongly assuming that is what I wanted his office for, so I played along. “Gracias, Montrae, but no,” I said as I patted my crotch with my other hand. “I’ll supply my own entertainment.” His black, heartless eyes made a cold shiver run along my spine as they stared through me and he smiled, nodding his head as he turned and walked back to the main part of the bar, his street savvy eyes immediately recognizing that his services were no longer necessary and no more money was forthcoming from this rich jefe. As the crowd clapped and hollered for the next dancer, I snuck off down the hall to Montrae’s office, quickly locking the door behind me. I surveyed the tiny, cramped space and immediately found the television with the VCR stashed underneath it. As I slid the tape in and pressed the on button, I felt a rush of excitement hit me as the screen lit up, hoping that things at Winscott were about to change if this tape really did hold some type of blackmail power that I could now wield instead of that bastard Nick.

  I leaned against Montrae’s desk and watched the images unfold in front of me, my mouth agape and heart racing as I discovered it was a sex tape all right, just not one that even I would have ever imagined. I held my breath (and vomit) as Ralph and Nick went at each other like two depraved dogs in what looked like the inside of an expensive hotel. Holy shit! I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Ralph, the skirt-chasing, gun toting, beat-your-ass-to-a-pulp bull of a man known for his roughneck upbringing and foul mouth as he courted clients that were just as rough and crude as he was; a man who would spend thousands of dollars tonight alone on drinks and pussy for the entire male population of his firm, as well as himself; the only man that I ever felt some semblance of respect and admiration for as he took what he wanted and never looked back; was taking it up the ass from Piper’s husband.

  And that’s when the plan formed.

  As I leaned against the decrepit desk, the smell of stank, dirty hoochie and booze permeating from every inch of the filthy walls, I realized that what was on that tape held the key to my takeover of Winscott, as long as I played my cards right. I didn’t have time to hatch a failsafe plan in Montrae’s office because this bombshell was going to require quite a bit of finesse to accomplish.

  The sounds coming from the TV were making me ill when I needed to concentrate on what I was going to do now, so I hit the “stop” button and ejected the tape. I held my little goldmine in my hands and forced myself to calm down and think rationally. As I began to pace back and forth in the tiny shithole, my mind racing wildly, I realized that I could own the firm within the next few days.

  By getting rid of Ralph.

  The sweat began to roll down my back as my excitement escalated. I glanced down at the television screen and noticed that, underneath the stand, there was additional video equipment used to make copies of tapes, and that’s when the proverbial light bulb exploded in my head. I knew exactly what I was going to do to Ralphie Boy, so I fiddled with the equipment and dug through the office, finding a blank tape and making a copy.

  Ten minutes later, I slipped out of Montrae’s office and stopped at the edge of the hallway, spying on the revelers from my spot, searching for Nick and Ralph. Nick was sitting at the bar doing shots with Eric, but I didn’t see Ralph, so I assumed he was in the bathroom, giving me a chance for a clean getaway back outside to replace the tape.

  I stopped off at my car first, unlocked the trunk, and gently hid my new best friend in the darkness, then hurried over to Nick’s car and slid the copy of the tape back onto the floorboard. Although it was no longer wrapped in a manila envelope, I doubted, as drunk as Nick would be if he continued to try and match Eric shot for shot that he would be able to remember much of this night, so I smiled at my work and headed back inside once again. At the door, Shantilly was taking a smoke break, her heavy breasts spilling out over her miniscule top, her cherry red lips pulling hard on the cigarette as she eyed me like I was a walking bank. I gave her a wink and patted her ass as I walked in and told her, “Shanti, tonight I will make your month. Give me five minutes, then meet me at the bar.”

  And so I slipped back into the party, no one the wiser of the bomb I just planted in my car or the tremendous explosion it would cause later—not even me. Less than two weeks after that night, the timer on my bomb was set, just at the moment when I noticed that Ralph’s demeanor changed over from stress to complicity, thinking his moral fuckup was dead and buried, and then BOOM! I lit the fuse and watched the burn.

  I remembered sitting anxiously all day at my desk as, one by one, the others came in, each shocked and completely unnerv
ed by their own personal copy of Ralph’s exploits that they found wrapped in a pretty package on their desks. Of course, I feigned shock as well, touting the tape to be an obvious fake, for there was no way that our illustrious leader was capable of such atrocious acts. I nodded my head in agreement with the statements of “something needs to be done.” I stayed hidden in my office all day, waiting and listening for the sounds of shame and remorse to emit from Ralph’s, but by nine o’clock that night, the only thing I heard of any significance was the occasional slamming of drawers or a low grumble.

  Furious that he had yet to do anything drastic in response to his starring role, I decided to grease the wheel a bit and wandered into his office, file in hand, to help perpetuate the myth (in case anyone were to walk up on us) that I was just going in to see him regarding a client. When I opened the door and saw him glued to his fine leather chair, his body almost completely sunk into the heavy cushions, I immediately noticed the opened gift on his desk. The pallor of his face was all the evidence I needed that he was well aware of the tenuous circumstances he was immersed in. The heavy smell of his favorite spirit filled the room with its sickening odor, along with the rank stench of human sweat. I had to put on my best game face while smiling at him, my voice smooth as melted chocolate as I asked, “Ralph, you look rather ill. I hope it’s not something contagious.”

  When he finally looked up at me from behind his sunken eyes, I knew that he was clasping for dear life to the last thin tendril of his sanity, but I also knew that he recognized a fellow bullshitter. I noticed the gun in his hand that was resting quietly in his lap, and then in one quick moment, his pupils dilated as he finally put the missing puzzle piece in place. His lips curled back into an ugly snarl as he screamed, “It was you!”

  I smiled at him as I responded, “It was? What exactly did I do, Ralph?” I said, the chocolate pouring down my chin now as I moved, almost indecipherably, closer to him, my eyes never leaving his. “Are you accusing me of taking your little show on the road? Providing it to the masses for their entertainment? You don’t really believe that I would sink that low do you? If your little…er, well, big…secret were to fall into the hands of the media, then how would that reflect upon us? You know, how the mighty Winscott likes hot weenies with a side of pain, especially the one of a colleague’s husband?”

  I was almost at the side of his desk. My shoes made no sound as I gently placed them, one in front of the other, on the lush carpet. I was within three feet of him and could literally feel the anger pulsate from him, rolling off every inch of his thick skin as it left his pores and adhered to his clothes. My smile was plastered across my face but never reached my eyes. Ralph’s fury was past the boiling point, but he was quite inebriated. We both knew if he tried to stand, he would fall over, so he opted for only moving his arm, which shook slightly as he raised the gun in my direction. He tried to cock the hammer back with one hand, and just as he reached over with the other to lock and load, I swung into action and, grabbing his wrists, forced his hand up to his temple and helped him pull the trigger.

  The sound the .45 made was deafening and my ears literally felt like blood was running out of them, almost enough to match the spurting blood from Ralph’s head. I didn’t care as my fake smile now was a real one and travelled to my eyes, thankful that the bastard was finally gone.

  It was then time to go clean up and play the shocked employee that just walked in on his boss’s suicide. My plan was perfectly executed. All the votes I needed to take over the firm after the tragic passing of its beloved benefactor were in place. It was neck and neck between Eric and me, and the final vote came down to the luscious little Georgia Peach that I violated a few weeks ago. I remember how my triumphant grin disappeared when she cast her vote for Eric, her eyes a pile of sweet mush while she ogled him.

  Bitch.

  I SCRIBBLED MY NAME, Sgt. Sherman Fenter, on the sign-in sheet in my best chicken scrawl (Mom always said I should have been a doctor with this handwriting) which officially relieved the scrawny, pimple-covered boy that was desperately trying to look impressive in his uniform, from his shift. Before I could even set the pen down, ol’ skin and bones was up and out of his chair in his scramble to get home, probably to eat some more pizza and chocolate to create some new additions to his face. I just stood there and stared at him, waiting for the pipsqueak to realize he forgot something before he bolted for the night. Geez, where do they get these recruits, and what in the hell is his name? I reached out and snagged the idiot by the arm as he rounded the desk, his eyes solely focused on the door, and, intentionally making my voice gruff, I barked, “Um, boy, aren’t you forgetting something?”

  Boney-Boy stared at me like I just threw scalding water on him or was speaking a foreign language, his pale face instantaneously growing even paler as his free hand, attached to his other wimpy limp noodle, reached up and did one of those “Oh, I could have had a V-8” slaps in the middle of his pasty-white forehead, and he chirped, “Oops…sorry, Sarge. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to remember that!”

  I let go before I bruised the little twerp and didn’t say a word as I extended my hand for him to drop the keys into, shaking my head in disgust and dismissing him as I turned and walked over to the desk to begin my long shift. I sat down and immediately began checking the logs that nim-nuts most likely jacked up from earlier. Oh well, at least it would give me something to work on tonight because God knows the graveyard shift in this barren ward of the jail was boring as hell, except for my petty torments.

  Sure enough, the logs weren’t properly filled out. Some weren’t even signed, and I felt my irritation grow. How many times did I need to cover for his sorry ass? I made a mental note to contact our superiors before I left in the morning to request that scarecrow be moved to any shift other than the one prior to mine.

  I knew fixing all these mistakes would require my full attention, so I decided to head down to the break room and snag a cup of oily coffee to rev up my brain cells. The halls were silent, save for my footfalls and the low hum of the lone television that continuously played in the break room, intermixed with a light snort from one of the numerous upstanding citizens in their new little concrete homes. I paid it no attention as I headed straight for the coffee maker until I heard the words “…trial of Olin Kemper…” and quickly looked up, watching that pretty reporter from Phoenix whose name I could never remember, reporting on the death of Robert Folton with her sweet red lips.

  Holy shit!

  Since it was after midnight, I knew that this was just a repeat of the earlier news, and I missed most of her report, so I quickly poured a cup and trotted back to the control room, sloshing coffee on the dank floors behind me as I did. I sat down at the desk and quickly logged onto the Internet, intent on watching the entire news story, and as I did, I couldn’t help but wonder, just as li’l Miss Cutie Pie Reporter mentioned, how Robert’s death would affect the trial of the nasty bastard caged down the hall. In all my years of working in solitary, numerous sick and twisted characters had been housed in those tiny little rooms, but none of them ever rubbed me the wrong way as much as Olin Kemper did. I never could quite put my finger on the exact reason why, but there was something that leaked from him from behind those hooded, icy eyes that made me want to crack him over the head with my club, like I was bashing the devil out of him.

  Of course, the fact that Gina had been my high school sweetheart didn’t help his case.

  Knowing that beating him to a bloody pulp was not a possibility—at least if I wanted to keep my job—I opted for my own brand of torment after he was brought here months ago. I requested the midnight shift indefinitely and made sure his dinner was served in the wee hours of the morning after, of course, I made certain “alterations” to it before I slid it into his cell.

  Bastard, he deserved to die for what he did and for living the high life for so long, and it was about time he was punished, but now, would that happen? I didn’t know much about the legal fin
agling that goes on during a trial, but if the star witness was dead, I wondered if he could actually end up beating this and walk free.

  I glanced back over at the computer screen and noticed a few more links to news video feeds that blared “Recommended Stories” and almost closed out the screen when the last link suddenly caught my attention, simply because it was about snakes. I’d had a strange love for anything scaly ever since I saw my first one up close and personal at the zoo as a young boy.

  It was from a small blurb about the discovery of the body of renowned herpetologist, Dr. Dan Moore, at his tiny research and milking facility in McNeal on Wednesday. I couldn’t believe it! I owned a few of his books on snakes and just recently purchased from Buried Books an old copy of Arizona’s Vipers that he wrote over twenty years ago simply because it was chock full of fantastic pictures of some of the most venomous snakes in North America. As I sipped my coffee, I listened to the report, which was rather vague and stated that poor Dr. Moore, found by a research assistant, died in a tragic accident after some of his vipers escaped from their cages and apparently bit him. I sat back in my chair and wondered how much his books would be worth now that he was dead, and then I heard the reporter say “…inside sources tell us that police, although treating Dr. Moore’s passing as an accident, are interested in speaking with Ms. Bridgette Summers, who had an appointment with Dr. Moore the morning of his death.”

  Bridgette Summers…Bridgette Summers? Why did that name ring a bell? I closed the screen and tried to think. An old girlfriend? A high school chum? One of Katie’s friends from school? No, it wasn’t any of those, and try as I might, I couldn’t recall why that name triggered something in my memory. Damn, but I hated getting old.