Skunk Hunt

by J. Clayton Rogers

  "You," she said.

  "We met—"

  "Don't remind me how we met," she huffed nicely, but with more emphasis than justified by our brief acquaintance. "Last time I saw you, you had chest of money."

  Weakened by the proximity of guns and gals, I nodded feebly.

  "So what, they're trying to squeeze more out of you?" To my horror and delight, she accompanied her suggestion by briefly closing her hands over her breasts, as if to say she was familiar with the routine.

  "I don't know why I'm here," I answered weakly.

  "I know how you feel," Monique nodded. I wanted to disagree. She might not know what she was doing, but at least she was making a buck doing it. I seemed to be doing the reverse. Then she added, puzzingly, "This is early in the day for you, isn't it?"

  Carl was puckering and unpuckering his lips in flabby contemplation. "Hey, Babyschmucks, you look like you need to take a weight off your feet."

  "You got that right."

  "Why don't you take a seat..." His finger drifted from under his chin and delicately fixed its point in my direction.

  Dog's eyes rolled, but he stayed in place like a good obedience school graduate when Carl waggled the fingers of his other hand. It was a peculiar gesture, a cross between dissing and signing in Esperanto, a dead living language.

  "Oh really..." Dog's weren't the only eyes rolling. "I don't want to be a part of something I'll be sorry for."

  "Like you've never lap danced before," Carl smirked evilly.

  "Not for some guy you plan to..." She gave her boss a hard look. "What exactly do you have planned for him?"

  Yeah, I'd been wondering about that myself. I forced my ogling eyes from the girl to the man behind the desk in anticipation of the answer.

  "We're just having a little tit-a-tit here."

  "You don't look too chummy to me." I was comforted by the fact that she kept her head averted from Dog. She wasn't the only one who could not bear to look at the deadly pooch. Monique and I were birds of a feather: birds in a cage.

  "We've been chums for almost half a year, now," Carl said, covering me with the gooey smile of a hale-fellow-well-met.

  My puzzled expression was lost on him, which only puzzled me more. Why lie in front of his employees? It was an exaggeration times twelve. Up to a few days ago, all I knew about him was what I saw on the tube, a dubious character of questionable taste. Then my eyes went back to Monique and I amended the editorial: a dubious character of impeccable taste.

  No doubt some of you think gawping at a girl and her naked jollies pretty crass, and calling her beautiful an awful lapse in character on my part. You may or may not have any intellectual truck with the prurient mind, and there is a hard core out there who believe people like me should be arrested just for thinking. But you have to regard the whole package to understand the lowly male. Barf me a wet cat, you say, but you'd be ignoring a billion years of evolution (I'm including the whole universe here). Monique was, in her current state, the ultimate art for art's sake. I'm sure she drew stares just walking down the street, fully clothed. Removing those clothes was...well, art. Art that made men drool. And isn't that what art is all about? What's the point of reading a book that makes you numb? Or seeing a movie that puts you into perfect REM? Or seeing a painting of Marie Antoinette decked out in a robe a la polonaise—unless you also think, "I wonder what she looked like with those clothes off?" I mean, before she lost her head—the bit that would appeal to a character like Dog, who no doubt frequents an art house on the Rue de Sick Pig.

  I had a very high opinion of Monique. She was the Shakespeare of nudity. The Bard could write Hamlet all the livelong day and never get the kind of reaction this girl could get just by being. I couldn't write Hamlet the livelong day, or any other day, but there was a remote possibility that this girl, under the right circumstances, could be mine. Wouldn't that be dandy? She was a living fairy tale, incredibly real, which made her accessible. The degree was in the difficulty. She wasn't Oregon Hill—she was Everest. But people do climb Mount Everest. I could become a work of art by possessing a work of art. No, I'm not confused. Rembrandt would have been a dud if he hadn't painted. Having Monique, or a girl like her, would be the making of me. And, in case you haven't noticed, I haven't been made, yet. Not quite.

  You must think this is a peculiar place to ramble, with me facing an imminent creaming at the hands of Time's Goon of the Year. But it's very pertinent, when you consider what happened next. Because, rather than ignore or disobey Carl's injunction, Monique sauntered over and sat on my lap.

  I imagined on stage she was a delectably airy confection wrapped around a ceiling-high cinnamon stick. But my knee-scale told me she was something of a pound cake, solid and weighty. She was seated sideways, allowing me to stare into her eyes, once my eyes decided to look up. And as soon as I got over my amazed wonder, I did indeed look up, to find her smirking down at me with more than a trace of scorn. It was then that I realized she was no innocent pawn. She knew exactly what she was doing, even if she didn't know the why. She was no longer an entertainer, but a weapon. OK. Shoot me.

  Carl and Dog hovered in ripe inconsequentiality as I studied up close the raised nipples under her pasties. My brain pain was dribbling out of my mouth, but I had enough cognitive power left to wonder where she put her tips. I inhaled deeply.

  "Nice perfume," I said.

  "It's the sugar waxing," she said, brightening a little. This was a topic that interested her. Me, too, I suspected. So I followed up with the inevitable question. She began her answer with a sweet shrug of her shoulders that did wonders for both our postures. "Epilation."

  "You mean hair removal?" I said, thinking 'depilation'.

  "Mix an eighth of a cup of water with an eighth of a cup of fresh-squeezed orange juice and a cup of sugar."

  "Fresh squeezed," I said throatily.

  "Heat until the color is golden, then let it cool before application."

  "Application," I said, with that damn frog still in my throat.

  "For proper epilation. Wanna taste?"

  "You mean...?"

  "It's very healthy," she continued. "Full of vitamin C. Another full dose, like last time."

  And protein, I thought piggishly as I too-casually dismissed 'last time.'

  "Hey Monique," Carl snapped, "I told you not to use that word around here."

  "What? Dose?"

  I wondered if her offer of a free meal was slightly bogus. I neglected to mention that, in addition to the law-daring pasties, Monique was wearing the standard three-mile high tip-me-over pumps, the stiletto of one of which was pressing into my foot. It stabbed a little harder when I eyed her skin hungrily. The skank was teasing me. Well...that was her job.

  Some hairs from her razor-shag tickled my nose and I sneezed.

  "Ugh!" she cried out, jumping up.

  "It's just germs," said Carl with a languid sneer. "You know...a dose. Sit back down."

  To my astonishment, Monique pulled out a tissue and handed it to me. Now where had she gotten that? From the same place where she kept her tips?

  I blew my nose. When I looked for somewhere to dispose of the tissue, a gnarly hand came down before my face. I turned and found myself looking at Dog. With mock courtesy, he took the tissue. Instead of depositing it in the nearest receptacle, he held it to his nose and inhaled. Man, this guy was fearless. He was beating up on my viruses, in anticipation of doing the same with the rest of me. I bet he wasn't much in the safe-sex department.

  Monique looked ready to whip out her Fantastic, if only she could find the right compartment in her invisible utility belt. But she gamely reseated herself on my lap, with the polite admonishment that if I sprayed her with boogers again, she would propel my nose into my cerebral cortex. In which case, there would be no harm done.

  Carl had lifted himself from behind the desk and was fiddling at a stereo mounted to the wall. A moment later the melodic gush of the love theme from Spartacus filled the room. Pr
oducers of porn movies have an inordinate love of the great composers. A classy soundtrack makes a customer feel like he's getting an education while he's whacking off. Bob G used this particular music in his historical film 'Caligula', a truly accurate portrayal of the Roman Empire under the Caesars. If I went to college, I could do a thesis. The women were all lesbians and the men psychopathic killers. I think the evolution of humanity stopped at that point.

  There are too many people around who know things that we don't. I really hate the idea that somebody thoroughly repulsive knows what makes me tick. Carl, for example, knew that this classical goo could enhance erotic moments, counterintuitive as that might seem. Where I grew up, people didn't know the Moonlight Sonata from the Minute Waltz, and in that respect they were typical Americans. But add a sound byte from The Top Classical Moments to a pair or trio or quartet or quintet of naked bodies grinding away and the old bio-pneumatics take off. The deaf don't know half of it. I flatter myself as being of a slightly higher class. I can't hear Bruckner without getting a hard-on.

  Right now, Khachaturian was getting short shrift. I had a hot babe on my lap, and if I refused her enticements the cold guy at the desk might plug me. The music allowed me to imagine I was somewhere else, or add spice to the properly epilated skin sinking into my groin, but it was most definitely in the background.

  Monique circled her arms around my neck, crunching her top deck against my nose. I was in a perfect position to take the edge of one of her pasties between my teeth and pull it off. In fact, that seemed to be her idea. But another low growl from Dog put me off.

  "If you can't control yourself, Dog, I'll have to ask you to leave the room," said Carl. This seemed to give him an idea. "Why don't we both leave the room? There's only one door, and we'll be just outside it. I don't think Babyschmucks will hurt this young man too much. Give her fifteen minutes, and the boy will confess to everything."

  "Aw Carl," the girl complained, "I have a set coming up."

  "You have a set right here."

  A confession? That's what they wanted? This didn't look like any church I knew of. But a church is where the heart is, even if that heart isn't in the right place.

  "Look at him," Monique continued. "He'll confess to anything."

  "Got that right," Dog chimed in. "You're barking up the wrong tree."

  Well, if anyone knew about barking.... I was too preoccupied to bring it up. Monique's warmth was seeping through my cargo pants into my loins. I didn't think I could get an erection, with all that weight on top, but I was wrong. She could tell, I was sure. Or she took it for granted. She took a shiny fingernail that looked as if it had been buffed by the airport shoeshine man and worked it through my shirt. She could have been prying a clam out of its shell.

  "Why don't you tell the bad old man what he wants to know." Monique leaned her head against mine. She smelled so fruity I wondered if she epilated her face. "Then we can forget all this and have a good time."

  "They haven't told me," I whimpered.

  "What haven't they told you?"

  "What to tell them."

  "Old?" Carl complained. He had returned to his chair and was booting up his desktop. "When we come back, I want to show you some pictures."

  Monique probably knew every gray twig on his scrotum, but she didn't answer him because her lips were pressed against my cheek. I would have reeled if she hadn't anchored me down. It's a good thing God loves fools. Even if I had known what Carl wanted, I wouldn't have told him until the seduction had reached its climax. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Something I could brag about to acquaintances, and which would be universally disbelieved.

  Pictures? Carl said he wanted to show me pictures? Is that what he had said? I was too busy working up courage enough to put my arms around this delectable creature to bother with 2D. An unsuspected critic lurking in my higher functions declared Monique was on the plump side, with a slight pooch rounding her waist. A little puff that was scarcely visible when she stood, and completely invisible (I assumed) when she stretched herself upwards on the pole.

  "Before we leave, I want you to keep a few things in mind," said Carl as he browsed his computer for the files he wanted. "First, when a partner deviates from an agreed objective, I want to know why."

  There he went with that partnership business again. Maybe he had mistaken a nod for a legal agreement. But I had only met him once before, and I didn't remember nodding about anything.

  "You deny the partnership? Do you deny Babyschmucks, too?"

  I wouldn't deny her anything. But what was he saying?

  Monique twisted in my lap, to my indescribable pleasure, and gave me a closer look. Not wanting to appear gauche, I lifted my eyes from the supple gyrations of her flesh and met her gaze. She really did have wonderful eyes, although she looked a bit like the Lone Ranger behind all that mascara.

  "Yeah..." she said finally in a bemused tone. "But I wonder if he remembers." She pinched my cheek and did a doubletake. "Something funny..."

  "What, Babyschmucks?"

  "He's acting different than before," she said. "He's not so gung-ho."

  I thought if she twisted around one more time she would see how gung-ho I was.

  "That's how men behave when they betray their partners," Carl explained. "He's told us nothing, and nothing comes from nothing."

  Nothing, nothingness and nada had been subjects I had contemplated deeply over the years. It would have been a good moment to pick up the gauntlet. As in, if nothing comes from nothing, why were we here? But there was a warm something on my knees that drained me of debate. Damn. You don't need to be a heavyweight to toss philosophy out the window. In fact, being a lightweight helps. Alot.

  Running her hand through my prematurely thinning hair (more nothing), Monique worked magic into my scalp and sent a thrill of anticipation through me that was as much hope as fear, but was mostly blind stupidity. I had to be stupid to forget Dog at my shoulder. Carl might take amusement in watching his employee fornicate, but Dog could only look on in rabid horror. But I wasn't much for audiences. Monique sensed this and said:

  "You guys leave. He's feeling hibidated." She shifted position and produced an intentionally comical frown. "Maybe..."

  "Think he'll talk to you?" said Carl standing.

  "I'll squeeze it out of him," she answered, giving me a hug that was actually quite friendly.

  "I could grind it out of him, and a lot faster," Dog observed from behind my right ear. I could feel the grindstone in his voice, and began wondering if the sex option was all that preferable, after all. If Dog was mad now, he would be sweating blood (my blood) when everything was said and done.

  "If he's convinced Babyschmucks will become his lifelong cream dream, he'll be more likely to give us the details," Carl said.

  From the way he spilled his plan in the light of day, it was obvious he didn't think much of my intellect. I knew that had been his intention from the beginning. He just figured I was too much of a noodle to dodge the obvious. You can see my dilemma. The obvious isn't always something you necessarily want to dodge.

  Dog must have made some kind of threatening gesture behind my back, because Carl felt obliged to rein him in.

  "Behave," he admonished. "You know Babyschmucks thinks the world of you. You know why? Because you're so reasonable. This is all a joke. A job."

  There were people on the street without jokes or jobs, I thought. Incredible as it might seem, after all this foreplay, my amorous inclinations were beginning to ebb. I mean, my captors were really pouring it on. I was a dummy deluxe, and all Monique had to do was pull my strings, aka yank my chain. It was beginning to look as if it was my moral duty to deny myself the pleasure of her company, if not to save my self-respect, at least to keep from drowning in self-loathing.

  If you're passive enough, physics takes over. You find a center of gravity that isn't yourself. It can be an organization (the Elks, a sewing bee, the Nazis), an ideology (democracy, Feng Shui, the
Nazis) or a person (a spouse, a lover, a louse, Adolf Hitler). Once Skunk was rudely eliminated from my life, I had nothing to focus on. I could have been something, like a career criminal, if he had stuck around a bit longer. I could have been a drunk (which is sort of a club, isn't it?). I could have learned the ropes, especially the kind that go around your neck. Come to think of it, I had still managed to end up in a noose, but that was more by chance than intention. Up to this moment, I had been a fragment loose in space. Not a renegade planetoid, but a dimensionless blob floating in comfortable aimlessness. But now I had to develop a flight plan, or at least a direction. I had to be all that I could be—which meant doing all I could do. Which didn't seem to be much.

  "You don't need to leave the room," I announced.

  Carl, halfway to the door, paused. I couldn't see Dog, but I suspected he hadn't moved.

  "What, you want an audience?" Carl touched his lip. "Don't tell me a mutt like you has something to show off. Do you? Would it be worth filming? We could sell it to—"

  "He ain't got that much," Dog barked with rabid sarcasm. He had seen me in inaction.

  "How would you know?" asked Carl.

  It was then that I discovered that Dog was possessed of, of all things, a prudish streak. To work for a man like this in a place like this with a harem like this and still maintain a sense of carnal decorum would have been laughable if I hadn't had his naked girlfriend on my lap. That he had not told his boss about his inadvertent bit of voyeurism was astonishing. It wasn't his fault that he had been stuck in my closet when Kendle threw me down on the bed.

  "Yeah," said Monique. "If anyone knows—"

  "That's right," said Carl, whose eager glance drooped when Monique shrugged and said:

  "He's all right."

  Translated from the language of 'polite reserve', this meant 'nothing special.' Overly pleased by this response, Dog snorted—not with contempt of me, but for the fact the subject had come up in the first place. A strangely objective man, Dog. Even more strangely, this made him sympathetic. Like most of us, he couldn't help but howl at the idiocies of Mankind, the other white meat.