by Aaron Cohen
Besides the law, the other problem is the moral minority, those who make a living by being loudly, obnoxiously pious, the TV preachers, the radio bible thumpers, the mega-church pastors who for a Sunday morning’s worth of inspirational speaking and catchy songs only demand ten percent of your earnings. Also needing some attention would be the family values crusaders, media watchers, political bloggers, political talk show hosts and the pious mommy bloggers who seem to want to baby proof the entire world.
The moralists can be bought as well, with what David calls The Great Compromise. In exchange for looking the other way while the State of Nevada legalizes prostitution at resorts featuring 10,000 rooms or more (and only The Dark Star would have 10,000 or more), David would quietly fund organizations and politicians whose only aim would be to outlaw strip clubs, adult book stores, peep-show theaters, and topless revues. On top of that, David would also finance police efforts to shut down all fronts for illegal prostitution, including escort and massage parlors. He would cut off all access to sex for money. Then he would offer The Dark Star, the only source of prostitution available, conveniently located just 20 minutes from the Las Vegas Strip.
With enough money, David could have the monopoly on legally paid-for pussy and cock.
But to get there, he is going to have to do just a few more illegal things, and hopefully they will be the last.
He takes the private elevator down from his penthouse office to the 23rd floor, a floor created for guests with more exotic tastes. Of the two dozen themed rooms, room 2323 is one of the dungeons.
Each of The Dark Star’s 20 dungeons is set up much like a doctor’s office, with a waiting area, a front desk for check in, and a room full of expensive equipment awaiting clientele. After forms are filled out and iron-clad legal releases signed, you can be clad in iron, if you wish.
Chapter Sixteen
In dungeon 2323, David looks down and savors the sight of a naked Leanne, strapped down to a leather-covered table, gagged, tears running down her face from underneath the leather blindfold strapped over her eyes. The cuffs are fur-lined (with real fur) and comfortable. They work all too well, as do the steel chains they are attached to. She kicks, pulls and nearly yanks her shoulders out of their sockets, but she can’t get free.
When David speaks, it is the first voice she has heard after more than two hours. He is right next to her, his lips just next to her right ear, the warmth of his breath making her flush.
“Want to know where you are?” David asks.
She screams into her gag, a plastic ball held in place by a leather strap buckled at the back of her head.
“What will soon be the happiest place on Earth,” he says. “Fuck Disneyland.”
She tries to say something, but it’s too muffled to make out. It might have been, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You are in a room that people will pay lots of money to play in, a room that will be serviced by the best practitioners of their art in the world.”
She gives another muffled scream and a line of spittle runs from her lips down her cheek.
“Me? I’m just an amateur really,” he says. “I dabble. My tastes are actually more conservative than you might expect for a man in my business. As you probably guessed, since my incident…my sexual tastes are somewhat altered.”
She sobs, having given up on screaming.
“But enough about me, let’s talk about the location and contents of a certain data stick that was once in your possession.”
Behind David is a wall sporting an impressive collection of whips, paddles, poles, ticklers, pinchers, clamps, bamboo canes, feather dusters, dildos of various lengths and girths, electrodes and a few devices that even David doesn’t know the purpose of. What is that? An egg beater? He selects a black flogger with dozens of strands of thick, soft leather. It will sting but it will not scar. A good place to start.
He should be enjoying this, but he isn’t.
This is the bitch he raised up from nothing, the cunt who betrayed him. He once wanted to do horrible things to her, fantasized about it, imagined what it would be like to hear her scream with pain and fear.
Here she is, right in front of him, helpless, and his heart isn’t in it. He loved her once, and truth be told, he was proud of what she was able to build after their split. She had been a good student.
“I’ll give you a chance, before we start,” he says. “Tell me what exactly is on the data stick, what files, from what sources.”
He unbuckles the gag’s strap and removes the wet, plastic ball from her mouth.
“David, please, don’t do this, I don’t know…”
“Wrong answer.”
He begins his work, with just a little regret. He lifts the whip, brings it down hard on the middle of her flat stomach, leaving red traces.
He uses the big flogger on her thighs and stomach, a small, stinging whip on her breasts and pussy lips.
Her screams fill the room, but go no further, as each dungeon features double-thick sound proofing.
After 30 minutes, he is panting, and losing patience. Leanne isn’t talking. She yells, cries, screeches with pain, but she also moans on occasion. Her body shines with sweat, tiny, taut and muscular. A picture of her at this moment would make for a fine advertisement.
This is going to take all night.
He realizes his mistake. He should have known better. Pain is nothing to some women. Pain turns to pleasure quickly. A whore like Leanne, her ability to transmute punishment to ecstasy would be exceptional. But pleasure, on the other hand, pleasure could become unbearable.
He finds the metal stand, like a microphone stand but shorter. He silently fixes a fat vibrator into it. He is glad she is blindfolded. He wants this to be a surprise.
“What’s next David?” she asks. “I was just getting into it. And what, no nipple pinching? Surely you are a better dom than that. You know you have to keep the nipples involved.”
“Yes, I do seem to recall you liking pain,” he says. “I also recall something about you and multiple orgasms. Not a fan? Do I remember that right?”
Using the stand, he carefully positions the fat head of the vibrator into her vagina. He makes sure the hard rubber bulb is pressed firmly against her clit.
“What the fuck is that?”
“Something I wish I had invented, but I can’t claim such creativity.”
He turns the vibrator on low.
“Oh shit,” she says.
She squirms, trying to get her clit away from the vibrator, but can’t. A leather strap around her hips holds her down tight. The machine shakes into her, rattling every sensitive nerve.
He slowly dials it up to high.
“Ohhhhh god noooooo,” she yells.
Her head shakes and she grimaces as if in pain. Orgasm one.
“How many more would you like, Leanne?” he says. “You tell me when to stop.”
The machine does its work, relentlessly, persistently. She tries but can’t get away. There is no escape.
By orgasm ten, Leanne is out of her mind, blubbering, crying for mercy. But still hasn’t cracked.
David turns off the vibrator and the hum of it dies. The room grows silent except for the sound of her quietly weeping.
She is helpless, pathetic, and weak. She would already be dead if she hadn’t once meant something to him. David should be using knives and ice picks instead of whips and paddles. To some other bitch, he would have flayed her skin until she told him whatever he wanted to know. But with Leanne, David just couldn’t, even though she deserved it for her betrayal.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“What was that?” he asks.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what happened to you. I’m sorry.”
“FUCK YOU LEANNE!”
He lifts his fist, ready to bring it down and smash her face over and over again until she’s dead.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
He lowers his fist. He get
s his shit together. Counts to ten.
“It’s a little late for apologies, don’t you think?”
“I’m sorry,” she says again.
He can’t hear those words again, words he’s wanted to hear for years.
He walks out.
“David?” she asks. But he’s gone.
***
Thirty minutes later, David is in his conference room, talking with his CEO, Tarlik, who is fascinated with the session with Leanne, interested in a way that doesn’t seem professional. He had watched the entire thing through the spy cameras in the room.
David wants to take the old man by his throat and snap his wrinkled neck.
“Her resistance is considerable, and I don’t want to take it too far,” David says. “I’m going to need more time.”
“Perhaps there is another way, something a little less pleasurable for you, but a little more persuasive. Perhaps it is time we showed her the true power of Empire Resorts.”
“What do you have in mind?” David asks, worried that the complications and variables are about to increase.
“Her father is the owner of the Booby Hatch, is he not?” Tarlik asks.
“Yes, she and her father reconciled years ago. After Leanne and I parted company, her father financed her business. I think it was a sort of apology for her abhorrent childhood.”
“It would seem a shame if drugs were found on his property and our friends in law enforcement had to shut it down, take his license, and seize all his assets.”
“I will make the call,” David says.
Chapter Seventeen
Luke and his companions speed down I-95, the freeway that connects suburbanized northwest Las Vegas to the city’s center. Cecil keeps his right foot heavy on the gas pedal, heading to the hospital where Luke’s aunt and uncle are headed. Tires squeal as he turns onto the off ramp.
“You want to slow down, you maniac?” Artie asks.
“I’d offer to let you drive, but I’m afraid we don’t have any phone books for you to sit on,” Cecil says.
“What the hell?” Luke yells, pointing. Up ahead, two ambulances are parked underneath a graffiti-covered overpass. Their lights are flashing, but nothing else is moving.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Cecil says.
Cecil swerves the Escalade off the road and pulls up next to the wagons. The scene shocks them into silence. Two bodies lying in the dirt, one guy a paramedic and the other a cop. A pool of dark red blood seeps into the desert dust.
“Haven’t seen anything like that since the 70s,” Ben says.
Luke jumps out of the SUV, looks for his aunt and uncle.
***
A little while earlier…
A professional assassin speeds up I-95, heading to his next job, his next big payday. His name is Stan.
Stan doesn’t like that he had only 30 minutes to prepare for this job, that he got a call from that obnoxious, overbearing David, yet another corporate blowhard who gave orders like he was talking to some generic asshole middle manager, like he was talking to someone who didn’t make his living dealing death.
Normally, Stan would spend a week or more researching a target, learning habits and patterns, likes and dislikes, friends and enemies, strengths and weaknesses. The killing is the easy part. A jackass with a rusty gun from a pawn shop can off just about anyone, a drug kingpin, a CEO, the president, whoever.
Doing it and not getting caught is the trick. Doing it and diverting blame to someone else is an art. Forensic evidence must be perfectly created and planted. One needs to understand the audience (investigators, families of the victim, friends, enemies), what they want, what they need, and then give them someone to blame, someone to catch, someone to seek revenge from. A good murder is a dead body surrounded by a wall of lies that lets no light through, where the right suspects are falsely arrested and the desired conclusions are reached by the cops and coroner. A good murder is something to be proud of, and Stan is always proud of his work.
But only a half hour to prepare? To create a masterpiece? Fucking goddamn insulting, but doable, for the right price. In this case, the right price is three times his normal fee. David had called it extortion, but what the hell? Extra risk merits extra reward. And doing what Stan is about to do is plenty risky, taking down a couple of murder suspects with cops buzzing all around them, right in the middle of a hot investigation.
Stan is going with a plan that has worked well many times before.
How many people have I killed while dressed as a cop? Nine? Ten? I can’t remember. So many jobs, so many targets. Time flies.
The cop disguise gave him entry into crime scenes with no questions, has civilians instantly trust him, has real cops give him information without a care. People trust cops, feel comforted by their presence, lower their guard. And cops carry guns. Big guns. With bigger guns in their cars. No need to worry about concealing a weapon when you wear a badge and uniform. You get to wear your gun right on your hip in a holster and keep lots of extra ammo in your belt. Convenient.
He’s in his counterfeit cop car (bought at a cop sale, refurbished, re-painted, lights added to the roof and a dashboard computer installed, just like real cops had), flying down I-95, monitoring the police band on his radio. The ambulances carrying Owen and Beri are heading to Desert West Hospital. He knows just where to intercept them.
Sure enough, he sees the ambulances exiting off the highway, lights flashing but no sirens. The occupants must not be in critical condition. He’ll fix that.
He pulls up beside the lead ambulance, doing about 65 mph, and hits his lights and siren. He speaks through the car’s PA speaker with the volume all the way up so he can be heard over the screaming siren: “Pull over! You are in danger! Pull over right now!”
The ambulance driver looks confused and concerned.
Stan shouts at the driver, sounding as serious and professional as possible: “Pull over and evacuate your vehicles! The bomb squad needs to search your wagon!”
The ambulance pulls to the curb and squeals to a halt right underneath an overpass. The ambulance behind it does the same.
Stan parks his fake cop car in front of the lead ambulance, stopping at an angle, trapping the ambulance between a cement post and his car, making sure it can’t get away easily. Stan needs to do this quick, before there’s too much attention from drivers on the highway.
The driver of the first ambulance jumps out, looking worried. Stan gets out of his cruiser, looking like a cop coming to the rescue.
“What the hell?” the driver says. “A bomb?”
“That’s the report,” Stan says and walks past the driver to the back of the first ambulance.
He looks behind him at the driver of the second ambulance who is still behind the wheel and holding up his hands as if asking what’s going on.
“Get out of the wagon, now!” Stan shouts. The driver of ambulance number two complies. He goes to the back of his ambulance to help unload the passenger.
Stan opens up the back of ambulance one and there is the female target, on a stretcher, a paramedic sitting next to her. And a cop, another fucking cop.
Unbelievable! This is why I need time to prepare. Why didn’t I insist on time to prepare! Annoying!
The Female Target looks up from her stretcher, looking concerned. She’s underneath a sheet, with her right leg exposed, a bloody bandage wrapped around her thigh.
Pretty good looking for a woman in her 60s.
Stan enjoyed being a sociopath. Lacking empathy or a moral compass made life so much easier for him than it seemed to be for other people. However, he did somewhat resent killing attractive women. It never bothers him for long though. He’s a pro, after all.
“What’s going on?” asks the real cop. “I didn’t get a call about a bomb threat.”
Stan now has to make some quick calculations. He could try a lie, keep things low key, try to get the targets into one place, making them easy to kill.
Or
he can shoot the cop, the paramedic and the female target, and not risk tipping off the cop that something bad is happening to him. That would mean alerting the crew in the second ambulance, which might also include another armed cop. Annoying! Never again! Never again will I not prepare!
The lie seems better, more predictable. After he kills everyone, he will stage the scene so it looks like Owen and Beri tried to escape and ended up getting killed in the process, after killing their drivers.
Decent plan. Too many variables. Let’s see if I can get this moron to buy the lie.
“Couldn’t go over the radio,” Stan says. “The bad guys are listening.” He taps his right ear, just to illustrate the point.
“Right,” the cop says and stands up with the paramedic. “Let’s get her out of here then.”
“There’s a bomb on board and they send one cop here?” Beri says. “They don’t radio the ambulances? What the hell? Who are you? Who is your shift captain?”
Everyone freezes. The real cop scratches his chin.
“You know, she has a point,” the cop says. “Let me call in and see what’s…”
Fucking variables. Time for plan B, kill everyone as quickly as possible and sort things out later.
Stan pulls his gun and fires two bullets into the stupid cop’s face before he can finish his sentence. He turns to his left and blasts the driver in his surprised face at close range. Then Stan spins to his right and takes aim at the paramedic from the other van, as the woman strapped down to a gurney behind him is the much lesser threat.
But the paramedic turns out to have cat-like reflexes and leaps straight at Stan, hands out, going for the gun.
This is what I get for not listening to my own advice! Prepare! Always prepare!
If he could have done some research, he would have found out that this paramedic is maybe an ex-Marine with combat experience and wouldn’t go all gooey at the sight of a gun. Or maybe he would have found out that the paramedic is some kind of goddamn American ninja who spent his childhood training at a mountain-top dojo so he could spend his life fighting crime by night while saving lives by day. Whatever.
