by Jane Brooke
What in the FUCK was he thinking?
They were going to weasel the slag through one of about a thousand tunnels they got going under the Mexican border fence.
Border fence, really?
That always gets tons of chuckles from me.
Seems there had been a delay, another word I hate. Because one of those fucking Predator Drones the guys at the DEA use was floating around the night they were going to use the choo-choo train they got down there below, to deliver the stuff.
So, King, being in his festive mood, and with the promise, (that always works with homicidal drug maniacs) that they will refund his dough tonight, asked me if I could throw down some reservations at some glitzy joint eatery on the Strip.
Seeing I know everybody in Vegas, he wants me to dress to the nines and take Carlos, FUCKING PERFECT, and have some cocktails and grub with him and me. Me being the eye candy for the night. Make it a fancy evening, you know.
Eat fine viddles, maybe do a spin on the dance floor, you know at some soulless club like Plumb. Then later, have a nice sit down and get his money so he can sleep happily ever after in his new dream world.
Of course all the rockets, flares and Hydrogen bombs are detonating in my big brain and telling me that nothing is ever as it seems.
I then ask him. “Why not just take Earl?”
Earl being a real asset and the kinda guy that bullet’s look like they could bounce off of his gold grill might be just what the meeting needed. The kind of scary guy some hard studs might take a second glance at, before they fucked you five ways to Allah.
He NAWS me, chirps. “Chill doll, it’s me B-day, let’s keep it easy, fun, light, its his birthday.”
Maybe, his last in my mind.
“But King.” I fucking moan...Don’t’ ya thin...”
“It’s all good, Janie.”
He says, if he brought Earl, well instantly the monolith, just by his very presence, might make some folks edgy, a bit un comfy. He might bend everybody’s good juju.
So because he wants these maniacs to have some eye-candy for the night, he asks me.
“Can ya Janie, look all dollish tonight? For me?”
Hispanic pukes love American girls, for the obvious reasons. They are the most savage and uninhibited freak girls on the planet and they will fuck you silly and never ask for dinner afterwards.
But also King, no dummy, wants me there for another reason.
“Janie, just be there. You know, with that secret you’s carry in yer rhinestone purse, just in case.”
I like none of it, but what’s a girl to do, he’s my bud, and well, I just can’t say no.
I reluctantly agree, feeling my tiny toes curl in my steel toed boots. I tell him not to dress just yet.
Over the years I’ve weaned him from the gangster togs, and now he’s gone all European, shirts, suits, shoes, and such. I
I’m not a fashinista diva for nothing and I have his B-Day gift in the Buick.
“Come on, I have something for you.” I kiss him on the lips, he likes that.
I’m creaming just waiting to give it to him.
Earlier I skipped over to that massive indoor den of inequity mall thingy they got goin’ down over there at the Venetian. You know Cardin, Lauren, Armani, Marc Jacobs, Dolce & Gabanna, Tiffany’s, etc, etc, etc a few days ago.
Then, I had copped him a black Armani suit.
Three gees baby.
Added on a Calvin Klein pure white linen shirt, a red Steven Land neck tie, the kind you can make a Contrast Knot with, very chic.
To put the cherry on top, I bought him a black pair of Crockett & Jones, English Half Brogue’s, tie-ups. I topped the Sunday off with a solid gold tie clasp, with a small 38 on it.
I pre ordered that from Tiffany’s.
That’s Holly’s fav place, just to set everything off in a classic way. King deserves nothing less.
Since I’m only good at tying ribbon knots into my boots and my tits, and pretty much nada else, I had the store folks put the stuff in boxes. They tied a lot of colored ribbons on them and they even made bows. I was grateful for that.
And, then, if you can believe it, they got this store there that does nothing else but sell cards, and stuff. They got I’m for every occasions.
You know birthdays, births, weddings, abortions and even had one for condolences.
You know when some insane kid gets jilted by a cheer leader from the pep squad and, then decimates about twenty of his class mates with an AK-47 at the local high school.
And that got me to thinkin’, me being the entrepreneur that I am. How about a card for fucking, you know.
“Dear June, great fuckin’ last night, just the best. A night to remember. We loved tapping that booty of yours. You’re an awesome bitch, amazing piece a booty. Best and big love. Buster, and all the guys from the Lacrosse team.”
Heck, you could do every sport. It seems like a swell idea. I will call Hallmark when I get home, see if they bite.
Anyhooo schlepped the stuff into my Buicks trunk, which I’m opening now, so I can give King his birthday present. I even got this little card that’s say:
Happy Birthday King on it. I, hope there’s more.
I suspect that there will be, that is if I can keep my shit together tonight.
King was smiling as I slopped the presents right near the tail fins. I saw that my Mossberg was there, a box of shot gun shells, resting right near my baseball bat and machete. That’s stuff that I usually have at hand just in case bad karma happens. I then closed the trunk.
He’s looking all dreamy at me and such, can’t blame him, I am me after all.
I make him say the Eagle Scout pledge. You know, promising me he won’t open them until tonight, which he does. I get a hug. I “Ooooh and a kisseroo.” I liked both.
I make a time for the sit down with the Mexicanos. Hopping the door of the Buick, I fire her up, plug in some Dr Dre, and hip hop all the way home.
I love my car. It was a time when Detroit built them out of iron and steel. When belching smoke from a 302 engine block and powerful RPM’s as a girl cruised through a once radical America met something, met a girl was a free bird. No more, though, and it’s a tragic times of corporate greed, and everything has become monetized and stamped out ordinary into nothing ever special again.
So that brings me to Moi, always a very important thing, especially for tonight.
I jettisoned style, I mean that slavery to fashion thing dog years ago. But that don’t mean I still can’t get it up when I want to look like a super doll.
Which I can at a drop a dime at any time.
I need to go shopping, because as I mentioned before, a plan is paramount to a girl thing being a reality. Use what you have, so I need to get sexed out.
I mean really, really look solar, me knowing that stray eyes, my bod, face, eyes, miles of legs and most likely my cunt might just be the ticket I need to survive the night.
Now I need to so some shopping for some super rags. Just, you know, props every pro gal with a gun needs at times to make a first impression and stick like epoxy to some guy’s eyeballs.
A little distraction never hurts when crunch time comes.
So I check on Gumbo, Stella in their fish tank. I think I surprised them fucking.
They look all good.
I grab my PI, drivers and gun license and get my American Express Platinum Card. I am going to need it that bad boy.
Making sure my leather hip huggers are set low on my hip, I grab a black Hoodie and look all around.
Life looks good as I turn and jet down the stairs, out the iron security door.
“CLANG.” It locks.
I fly over the doo of my Buick, settle in, hit up my girl, rev her duel Richard Petty carbs and slot some
Prince into the CD machine.
I light a smoke and, then hit it, moving towards the Las Vegas Strip. You know, where they have all the dead bodies buried. I’m pretty happy, and why not.
Me Jane, Vegas Pi and that’s a good thing.
XXX
“YIIISH.”
I’m fucking traumatized, as six hours later, I’m lugging all this stuff back, bags, and bags of the stuff into my loft and the ‘Thing’ I picked up on the way.
More about that ‘Thing’ later.
The elite mall was packed with grazing herds of Japanese tourists, cameras everywhere, Chinese, Taiwanese and European tourists shopping too.
There were tons of Arab women, sans black sheets, for when there away from Jeddah, they become very different girls. They become western females, wearing makeup, consumed with style, jewels, clothes, high heels, lip paint, all the stuff that would get I’m an ass stoning back there in The Kingdom.
My nerves feel like pin balls, my head hurts, my butt aches and my feet hurt too, and I tell ya, trying on clothes is an endless state of mania.
No wonder I have made my life so basic. The new ‘Thing’ I have in my arms, well that just complicates stuff more. I need to take a chill pill, get a drink. Wished I smoked pot, I don’t,
So I drop the ‘Thing’ on the couch, look down, see these topaz colored pools of eyes looking at me. I think French, responsibility, love, can’t go there for the moment anyways, so in the kitchen I go.
I grab a bottle of Cuervo, sans salt, lime. I throw two shots down. Adding one more, I take the bottle, adrenaline main lining the alcohol out of my system as fast as I absorb it. I move back into the loft, plop my ass on my couch, kick off the boots. I stab my gym sock clad feet on the coffee table, plug at the bottle, stare at my 56 inch, wafer screen tube.
You know. The ones those Japanese guys make with all the Yen stuffed in their pockets over there at the mall. Corporate profits they pump out of Tokyo every minute of their lives, seeing America doesn’t make jack anymore, except bullets and guns. Which Americans use all three hundred million of them in the States to kill each other with 24/7.
NEWS FLASH for the NRA. (National Rifle Association) People kill people with fucking guns.
“WHEW.”
I’m hesitant looking at the ‘Thing’ staring at me from my couch. I love Ellen Page, Juno that flick. I can hear IT breathing, more on that, in a bit.
I really don’t want to do this tonight, wanted to watch a Heat/Knicks game, what with Lebron and D-Wade being such studs and all. How much fun would they be in the sack?
New York’s got these black Imams, Amare Stoudemire and Carmelo Anthony. Could you imagine a turn in the sheets with those hunks?
Chreeeeist, probably be able to sing the National Anthem afterwards, you know after becoming a eunuch and all, they being so manly and me being so girly at times.
“GULP.”
Tequila, being the great leveler, nerves bending back, calms me a little bit.
I will have to skip the bucket of popcorn and a couple of bottles of Bud tonight. I really wanted Gumbo and Stella to see the game, but I have to cowboy up. Though it’s not Wednesday, I need a shower, shave the legs, pits, make sure my perfect teeth are white, my ragged mop looks nice.
So I guess I’m going to wash it, blow it out, and make it all fuzzy and cute. What I won’t do for a friend and now back to the ‘Thing’ and what the fuck just happened.
I’m not in the besto of moods, you know. The madness of shopping tied my brain in knots, but I was coping. I was trying to be all Jedi and such, and had the top down, listening to Taylor Swift moaning about one more bad boyfriend that done her wrong.
Was trying to get the black spell out of my mind, thinking about Taylor and what a fucked up world she lives in.
Here’s this young, tall, gorgeous blond, whose been scribing her own music since she was ten. Like Chopin, she’s a fucking kid savant, and she’s looking for love dating asshole rock stars, musicians and actors.
I want to BANG, BANG, BANG a knot hole in her head, and yell at her. “FUCKING WAKE UP.” You’re dating actors, and what do they do? “THEY FUCKING ACT.”
Don’t have her cell number, so will shelf that idea.
So I’m toodling down-a-side street, love garage sales, and slop to a stop, smoking a cigarette at a stop sign. Hearing something, I see across the street, on the right, a tract home stabbed with its cousins in a block of them.
There’s this typical American guy, you know, All Pro Albert Haines Worth football jersey on, baggy shorts, weighs about 220, about 5-6. He’s wearing the usual flip flops, a real piece of work.
He’s got this leather belt, and he’s beating shit out of this little golden cowering fur ball of a semi puppy. You know, one of those little whippet Shepards, smart as ya can be. The kind of whizzet that can catch about a million Frisbees, jump through hoops, do flip flops, and can herd about a hundred sheep into a pen from a guy whistling.
I can hear him screaming at her. I guess she was a girl, as he kept on beating on her as I was driving bye.
“WHAT DID I TELL YOU? WHAT DID I TELL YOU?”
Real pronto like, my molars grind, and I keep mumbling to myself as I pass. “Jane, let it be, let it be, let it be, mind your own business.”
I’m just about to wuss out, when I heard those fateful words. “WHAT DID I TELL YOU, YOU FUCKING LITTLE BITCH.”
Whack, whack, whack.
My steel toed boot, really, I had nothing to do with it, had a mind of its own. I staked the brake peddle, my tires locked, some smoke, and the Buick, guess she was thinkin’ for herself too slammed to a stop, right along the curb.
Then, the other Jane, the one not trying to be so good leaped the door, moved to the trunk, popped it and grabbed her Louisville Slugger.
Real angry like (seems like I remember that smoke was stacking out of my ears) I walked with an edge to the guy.
I patted his fat head with the baseball bat.
“Boing, boing, boing.”
It bounced on his head, not hard like, just to get his attention. I wanted to have a chat, a hard chat with the hog, about his use of words when talking to a girl.
Well, you know cowards. He was the kind of mutt that beat on dogs and girls. They can get attituded up real fast.
He turned, saw skinny me, and I could just see it as he strutted there standing still. I knew that he thought that I was the kinda bitch that he thought he could thump on.
I was tired of violence, but what was I going to do?
I said calm, not threatening, because I really didn’t want to go there.
“Please Sir, don’t hit that dog any more.”
Now me and looking absolutely darling in my black hip huggers, and a red t-shirt I had made that said on it Jane is a good Girl just to remind me that I’m trying to be a newer, better Jane, well, looks cute and very fuckable.
Now, within many life changing moments, for him, not moi, stuff slows down, way slow.
I have the ball bat, even though I don’t need it, but because I don’t want to mess up my knuckles again, well whatever.
You know I don’t need more blood, scabs, teeth marks on my knuckles because I want to look pretty tonight, because it’s Kings Birthday.
He looks at me. I look at the cringing pup that has these soft, agate brown eyes that are staring at me with a Thank fucking god you showed up look in them.
He, with the usual nasty attitude of mutts used to beating on females, snarls at me, balls his fists and drolls out his last words, literally.
“Listen you skinny cunt, why don’t you fuck off, BIATCH.”
Well there it is, always the so wrong answer.
I smile and, then Bitch Slap him in his fat face with a back hand. I watch as his jowls, looking like ten
pounds of Jell-O slosh all around, as he whips back, eyes real mad and so.
He then takes a round house at me, which I step around.
“Crack.” I give him one in his knee.
He screams in pain, perfect.
Bringing the bat up, I slam the point into his gut, rip it up into his chin and hear a loud “CRACK”.
More moaning and weeping.
I’m feeling it, so I clobber him on his head, another “CRACK.”
Stuff going well as he screams, moans, falls like a bag of spuds to the earth.
I see blood, that’s always a good sign.
The mook’s groveling, weeping, as I whip my Jane PI license out of my back pocket. I crawl on top of him, rip a tuft of hair and, then flash him my PI ID. It looks kinda all cop official like, could be a cops thingy as I snarl into his terrified face.
“Detective Victoria Garcia, Las Vegas PD, shut the fuck up, or the boys in blue are going to slot your sorry ass in a cell. GOT IT.”
I figure I’ll zip Lou up on the cell, give him a heads up, just in case the Perp calls, askin’ about a homicidal, violent cop bitch by the name of Garcia.
I know my bud will cover for me. Lou and the boys will get a chuckle out of that, I figure.
Anyhoooo, no words of course, just lots of sniffling, moaning, you know the usual crap out of a born coward’s mouth. I stand and look at the golden fur ball staring at me.
We seem to be communicating as I pick her up.
She goes into a ball, her little pink tongue licking my face, which plants a good feeling in me.
Looking at the guy, and just for good measure I pound the tip of the bat into the back of his hand, and, then clobber him on the back of his head. He goes down for the count.
As I turn, pooch and me walking back to the Buick, me hoping the door, laying her on the front seat, looking like a little jewel, I whisper at her. “You are such a little jewel.”
I think she’s panting something at me with some words in dog code. She seems happy, safe with Jane.
What broad ain’t better when they get away from some sadist fuck whose been beating on them since they can remember.
I for some reason think French.
