Jane, Vegas PI

by Jane Brooke

  It’s time.

  Now, I could have taken my boot 38 out and made the play easier.

  But, what would be the fun in that?

  Unhinging my chrome handcuffs, I open them and retrieve my PI badge and paper warrant, count down from three, and exit the stall.

  Tina is busy doing some kind of cosmetic thing in the mirror, probably making sure she looks pretty for me. She’s also doing more coke.

  I hate coke, but whatever.

  Holding up my badge and warrant, I see her eyes looking at me through the reflection in the mirror.

  She slowly turns around, and glances at my cuffs dangling from my pinkie finger. I am sure she thinks its sex props, but that changes as I cheerfully say holding up my badge and warrant.

  “Jane, bounty hunter. You’re under arrest. Be nice, I don’t want to hurt you.”

  It takes a few moments for her to realize that I’m not kidding. Literally, like a yellow eyed Copper Head, I watch her tongue lick her lips like I’m a field mouse, and she ain’t eaten for a month.

  I mean, look at me. I’m a toothpick blond. I mean really, how hard could it be to sodomize me, wrap my head in a plastic bag and murder me.

  I can see it in her eyes, and also see that she really wants it, me that is in some kind of stainless steel street coffin.

  Now, Judo is an illusionary martial art. It’s all about joints, tendons, tension, bones and the most fragile parts of the human body. The largest and badest muck can be taken down by a simple pinkie bend.

  I’ve done it before.

  Standing sideways, in a Karate stance, I drop my cuffs, badge and warrant to the floor for I know IT’S coming now.

  With pure mayhem in her eyes, she lurches violently at me, fist bunched and swinging within a maniacal moment of rage at my head.

  I take a controlled step sideways, avoid her swing, and judo chop her on the back of her neck, and go to a Judo crouch and, then lethal kick her in the back, sending her smashing into the toilet stall.

  She lands on her butt, feet spread eagle in front of her, hyperventilating and leering at me in pure rage.

  She is semi stunned. I can see that, I expected nothing less.

  “Be nice. “I whisper sweetly at her.

  Instantly she roars in madness, stands and rushed towards, swinging for the fences.

  In Judo, closer to the body the better it is. I move in between her punches, warp my elbow around her elbow, and violently rip upwards.

  “Crack.”

  I hear her elbow crack as she screams, takes a step backwards and leers at me. She shrieks and bull rushes me.

  Martial Arts is that, an art. I instantly extend a vicious shot to her nose, with the palm of my hand. With blood spurting everywhere, she stumbles back and slams into the toilets stall door gawking at the blood on her hands.

  She leers at the blood, then at me. Wailing, she leaps forward, only to receive Bam, Bam, Bam, Bam four knuckle shots in her chest, right above her heart.

  A pure heart shot, always wonderful in these special moments.

  I figure that the only thing keeping her mobile is the fuel from the coke.

  Somehow, she stands, weaves and bull rushes me again. With my Zoe time counting down, and still needing her mobile to walk out of here to who knows what, I decide to end it.

  Avoiding a swing and a scream, a side step and judo-chop her in the throat. With her gagging, I grab her hand, and over my back I twirl her in a flip on her stomach to the floor.

  She screams in pain, as I grab my cuffs and cuff her. Impatient, I grab a tuft of her hair, lift her face off the bloody floor, and push the warrant into her eyes.

  “You’re under arrest. Come on.”

  Waiting for a moment, I pull out my 38 from my boot holster. Not knowing if a tribe of insane lesbians is waiting for me out there, I have to be ready.

  Helping my ex lover to her feet, I take her by the scruff of her neck and help her to her feet. Moving to the door, I unlock it, countdown from three, and exit the bathroom.

  With my 38 I move into now a pretty focused and quiet group of curious girls. I’m waiting to be rushed, so I make sure they see my 38 as well as the dead serious look on my face.

  NOTHING.

  Holding up my PI badge, I say as I begin to move. “No problem here ladies.”

  Then, to my surprise and to a one, the sweeties all begin to cheer and applaud and slap me on the back as they escorted me out of the club.

  Once outside and getting lots of wonderful adieus and waves, I threw Tina in the trunk of my Buick.

  I hopped the door, found a smoke, put on some head phones on, hit it up with Taylor and roared off into the mysteries of the Vegas night.

  Let’s see. Get Tina to Biffs Bail Bonds, get lots a applause from the guys, get my ransom and skiddledoo back too Candy Land and scoop up Zoe.

  Fucking perfect.

  Later alligator.

  Jane, Vegas PI.

  xxx

  NOTE...Cops call their Lieutenants “LOU”.

  IT’S fucking Vegas, gun buck before dawn, another night boogying on the dark side, my side. Jimmy the casket lid open, crack a amyl nitrite cap, drag the corpse of dawn out of the coffin, slap it on the floor, see what this twisted morning brings.

  Doll, Jane PI, bounty hunter here.

  Toddling right along, I have this Amadeus octave mix mastering in my head all morning long. You know, degenerate, stunning, violent, sweet, I guess that describes me. I’m not going to fib about it.

  Again, last night I used my good looks like I use my guns, fists and steel toed boots to take down a bad girl.

  Fuck, I’m not vain, beauty is so destructive, so empty, so momentary, its not who I am. I’m a braniac and use my looks just as tools, tools mostly of mass destruction, just to do my job.

  Last night, again, I was a very bad girl, can’t help it, most gorgeous twists are you know. Most of the bent deviants in hard N. Vegas know me. Well in the demonic dark side of Vegas that is.

  Time to move, get that skinny frag body moving, a cup of Joe, maybe a smoke, work to be done.

  It was a great night, great time, violence, sex, a beat down, the usual triffecta of glee that makes me phat.

  Stop bitch moaning it’s time to move. Have music in my head, it, Vegas makes my neurons whirl, because I’m a genius genie, a blond girl planted in this platinum bod. I’m a girl with a gun, lots of guns.

  Pardon the day dreaming and repitition, I just can’t help myself.

  My mind is always dancing within the octaves of words. Writers, their insane and wonderful, can’t shoot them dead. I would be lost without them.

  My jacket, just to remind those that have forgotten that page is bi-girl, 5-11, 120, on a bad day. I love thin, body dimorphic disorder among a host of nut so mental illnesses. Nobody is perfect, don’t pretend to be.

  Don’t do drugs, can’t afford to. Drugs get a girl a one way ticket to Palooka Ville.

  IQ, like one of those cluster fuck Quasars rumbling around in deep space.

  Damn, Einstein is dead, the good ones die young.

  And what now, replaced by those jag offs on “Jersey Shore”, those fuckers are going to live forever. Life ain’t fair. No one ever said it was.

  OK. Back to last night, beautiful, Candy Land, a private sex club, N Vegas. It was the usual wonder world, my world, and I had a marvy time, because I am real piece of work.

  I love doing my Styx around the stilettos, piercings, blood drinkers, rich doctor gay men, looking for the usual suspects. You know, a home for their dick for the night, also lots a matron divorcees, gold, diamonds, nip, tucks, everywhere, divorce papers recently signed, hitting on the youngin’s. Lost young souls, show boys and girls, hard bodies kids, born to dance, fuck, take drugs
, frug the night away.

  It is a shooter, slammer and melon ball world. Then in the end, after burning out, they catch the next bus back to Kansas and, never, never, never go back to Vegas again. For that terrifying berg could scare the white off a Dracula.

  “I’m pretty sure there is someone for everyone, someplace. Except for me that is.

  Anyhooo, had a contract from Biff’s at the bail bond place, me being a PI and all. Biff always hangs me with the hard stuff because I’m so street smart. Gotta be street smart, choices you see, and I love to mix it up, love to test myself, combat, hand to hand combat and steel toed boots, always wear them.

  I’m an illusion, well, because I’m just so damn cute, a noodle, and most don’t know about all those marshal arts black belts I have. I usually need them all just like a few nights ago when I took down that real hard boy named Jimmy Flicks, at The Bent Club of course.

  I love reminiscing about wonderful times and I won’t go into detail, but it was a blast, and fulfilled most of my Special Needs for the night. You know, the truck axel kid had a dick like one of those Cape mother fucking Wilder Beasts, like you see over their in Botswana on the Nat Geo show. After he hammered my lights out, very welcomed, thought I would need a liver transplant and afterwards I took him out. I like it rough, wild, maniacal and he fit the bill, and well, I was not so nice afterwards, saying thank you for a good time had by all.

  Don’t feel bad about it though, bidness is always bidness. Everyone has to pay the piper sometimes, even if that Pied Piper is a 50 caliber, blond, steel toed sweet bitch who wields a Smith & Wesson, old school Python like other girls apply their lip gloss

  ME BAD.

  Any how, I forgot to tell the story about Glenda.

  After, I dropped the thug off at Hank’s at the bail bond place over there in Henderson. Hank was grateful, glad to see me, most of the dudes are. All the hunters think I’m a crazy doll, a pretty gal. I like that, what girl doesn’t like a compliment.

  Got my fifteen Gees, nice payday, though I don’t do it for the dough re me, but I like being a pro and appreciated. Later I will off load the cash at the Vegas Homeless Shelter, cool guy there, father Bob, buy lots a soup, maybe some Saltines, I hope. It’s hard times, bad times for a lot a folks, especially after Wall Street butt fucked them. Those remora fucks on Wall Street stole many of those good folk’s money, lives, future’s in that fucking sub-prime mortgage grift. Which fortunately, my millions never went any where near.

  Needless to say, my adrenaline was pumping testosterone, way out of whack, like one of those rail cars over there at the San Berdoo race track. You know, those super duper, Ether sucking muscle car machines, with fire belching out of their ass holes as some maniac pushes the envelope at 400 MPH down the track. Praying all along and hoping the chute opens, so he doesn’t become a human deep fried pretzel if it didn’t.

  After, had the top down on my beloved 59 turquoise, white and turquoise custom stripped tricked out Buick-driving machine. I love how the wind whistles past her tail fins as I slouch on my tuck & roll seats.

  As I cruised through Vegas with my I-pod cranked, my boot was on the dash, smoking, always smoke after sex, or violence, or getting my ass kicked, which are all and the same thing.

  Speakers plugged in to my elfin ears, every thing is tiny about me, but my big brain.

  Music ripping it up, Trina rapping, me singing along, I love that bitch as my un manicured fingers tap, tap, tap on the big Plexiglas steering wheel. Detroit made them right back then and me feeling ALL OF THAT in my black leather hip huggers, smoking.

  Fucking life, my life, perfect as Trina said.

  “Money over err, that’s my attitude, still the baddest bitch in the game, that’s my attitude, talk to ya man wen I get ready, that’s my attitude, have him blowing stacks, ain peti, that’s my attitude (yea) and I feel like I’m the shit, that’s my attitude (yea) that’s my attitude, that’s my attitude, I feel like I run this shit, that’s my attitude.”

  Damn, Trina is the bump and she’s all dat, strong and positive.

  She’s my fucking girl, ghetto, love all of it, she’s got skills. There are many different versions of me, not all good, but what the heckeroo. I’m always trying to be a better girl.

  What eeeever.

  More, on Glenda.

  After I had dropped the Flicks kid off at the bail bondsmen, I had finally found The Bent Club. I parked, gave big black Mike at the door a cheek kiss, a C note. I had given him two like their cousin Uncle Benjamin earlier for hitting me up with the info on Flick’s.

  He appreciated my classic style and got that huge smile of his. He is one sweet black man. So I cruised inside, and wrangled up Glenda. I needed more, fuck I can be insatiable, go figure and after all I did promise Glenda some girl action later.

  Can a girl die from too much sex? Don’t know.

  But, for the moment, that’s me and well, I will try to work on some of my character flaws later.

  So I scooped her up like the white cream cup cake that she is. We held hands like BGFF’s, and we vacuumed out of the place. I always keep my promises.

  Since i’m the fella for the night, I have to open doors for girls and stuff. I got skills and I can do the switcheroo, be passive at times, but not tonight, she being all girly Goth and all and so fucking young.

  So I am mister man for the evening.

  I can do that.

  XXX

  It was a sweet night as we drove, summer char in the air, she sat nice and close, head on my shoulder, as I threw down some Katy Perry “I kissed a girl, loved the taste of her Cherry Chap Stick”

  I know, I am obsessed with that tune, mood music, smiled as the wind kissed her multiple tattoos, piercings and Goth black hair. First dates are fun, we fit nice.

  I thought about buying the kid a-chocolate-malt. Naw, Glenda is even thinner than me and she likes it that way. So we whizzed back in the Buick Bat Mobile to my massive artist’s loft, the one stitched over Chang’s Chinese laundry.

  Fuck I love that movie China Town, “Jake, come on, it’s just China Town.”

  Smoking, laughing, tweaking, we cruised up to my place and parked.

  Lots a gang members lolly-gagging around and they protect me, my car and my digs. King, their gang land leader is my best buddy, and has marked me and my crib with his colors. No one touches me, car or crib unless they wanted an eyeball salad made out of their own eyes.

  I’ve helped King out a lot and he owes me. More peeps on that righteous black dude later.

  Once we got up to my loft, I threw down some Alicia Keys, mood music, fucking music, just perfect and, then we got down to girl stuff, the important stuff.

  It was early morning a few days ago and I remember Glenda white washed on my sheets, a white dollop of whip crème, raccoon eye makeup, black eye liner, hair like night, not a hair on her bod below her forehead.

  Chreeeist, she was stunning, a real flax jacket baby doll. I love her tattoos, Chinese dragons, the way they swirl down both arms, wrap around her back, all connected to that Japanese Calligraphy needle pointed into her small cunt, blending into that tiny butt.

  She’s got enough hard ware pierced into her bod, ears, tongue, nose, nipples, belly button, clit, those little eye bolts in her forehead to open a Ace Hardware, and their sexy for now.

  But wait, ten years will whistle by.

  “Can ya whistle Nick?”

  Then she will be serving the breakfast special at I-Hop, wondering what the fuck she was ever thinking about.

  Kids, they never think past the moment, go figure.

  She spanked a hit of E, offered me some. I declined, respectfully, but didn’t mind. Don’t do drugs, love reality, can’t afford not to.

  It kicked in, and then we were two naked girls, she burning, you know E, love everywhere, sense
s expanded, touchy feely and loving everyone.

  I could of been a bent backed Burundi Gorilla, didn’t matter to her, though I know she was sweet on me for real.

  Man I can still taste our first kiss, feel that little stud on her pink tongue, kissing my tongue. Like I said I’m insatiable, though my insides ache, hurt big time from the lynching the Flicks kid had administered to me in the alley earlier.

  I like pain, need pain, part of my cerebral makeup. Don’t know why, lots a people do, black and blue welts for some girls, dinner, box of popcorn, a movie for others. I don’t ever judge, can’t afford that either.

  I guess I needed some TLC, and Glenda was perfect, soft, sweet, wild and velvet skin pressed against my skin. There was lots a kissing, touching, and I needed that. I am a girl after all.

  I was glad, real glad she was enthusiastic, a bit frantic.

  You know when you’re a kid on Christmas eve and you’ve been watching those presents for weeks under the tree. Bingo, its Xmas morning, and there’s the pop gun and I was feeling beautiful, for I was the present she had wanted to open up for a very long time.

  She was a real muncher. Me in my dreamy world, knees hitting the sheets, me on my back, breathe break dancing out of my swollen lips, blood flow spilling down my blue blood veins, tummy swelling, hitting my spine. I could feel her finger nails, black paint like her mascara, on my thighs, me groaning, fingers entwined into her hair, feeling that tongue, that gold stud, roaming, chewing me up.

  Me, babbling like I got Turret’s, I think, you know.

  Oooh, aaah, fuck, praise Allah, fuuuuck.

  I was real sex gibberish, winces of pain, delight, wonder, then one, two, three, orgasm, more than one, she doing all the work.

  E is like the Energizer Bunny, a girl can go on, on and on seemingly forever. Thank goodness for the chemists at Eli Lilly.

  I’m not a selfish girl, so I reciprocated. Good manners are important when a girl has guests over. I read that in a Dear Abbey Column.

  And, what the fuck are they putting in the water in Vegas?

  She tasted like burnt copper and bee honey, that tiny little cunt, a real miracle of engineering, me peeking, leering over the edge of that lasered little mound.