Gordita Conspiracy

by Lyle Christie

  “No, now fuck off.”

  “Wow, and rude too. Anybody ever tell you that you’re likely the worst bathroom attendant of all time?”

  As he stood there glowering at me, I heard some kind of muffled grunt, and I took it to mean that something sinister was clearly happening in the bathroom. I started to push past the potty guard, but he reached out and shoved me back.

  “Leave while you still can,” he growled.

  I guess it was time to test his resolve.

  “Honestly, you’re taking this whole potty guard thing way too seriously, so I’m thinking you might need a job with less stress and more joy. Have you ever thought about working at a petting zoo?”

  “No.”

  “Ahhh—I get it. I’m sensing a bit of a beastiality vibe from you, so you’re worried you might get a little handsy with the animals.”

  His face flushed with color, and he grabbed a hold of my shirt and started pushing me backward, which was actually a good thing because I had his hands exactly where I wanted them.

  “I could totally see you going balls deep and fucking the stuffing out of a little pink pig—which, needless to say, would be inordinately cruel to the pig.”

  He clenched his teeth as he looked at me, his mind lost in thought as he tried to register what the hell I had just said. It sounded like mean spirited gibberish, but it was a purposeful blend of profanity, color, and alliteration meant to send my would-be adversary’s mind into a temporary holding pattern. Say a color and a person’s mind instantly pictured the color. Then add a little alliteration such as pink pigs, and you doubled the effect. Finally, sprinkle on a little profanity, the word fuck for instance, and you just bought yourself a nice little window of opportunity. It was basically a more sophisticated way of telling someone that his shoelace was untied.

  With his mind otherwise engaged, I used my left hand to trap both of his arms to my chest then started into a series of four consecutive strikes, which purposefully utilized both upper and lower body targets in order to discombobulate the mind of the attacker, and, more or less, drop his ass. Step one was to throw a short right punch straight into his solar plexus. He gasped and lurched forward, setting him up for a left chop to the throat, then a low right punch to his groin, and finally a final left vertical palm to his face. All four strikes were delivered in about a half of a second, and it left the potty guard so weak that he collapsed into my arms, struggling for breath and on the verge of passing out. Martial arts techniques were often about brain over brawn and learning to maximize force and pinpoint targeting. A punch or kick was useless if it didn’t impact the correct spot, and my burly potty guard friend had just learned that lesson the hard way. He was big, but even big guys went down when you hit the right spots in the right order. Nerves, arteries, airways, and balls were always vulnerable, and I had just hit all four. Now, he was as docile as a lamb as I crossed my arms and reached in and grabbed the collar of his suit jacket then rolled back my fists until the material tightened and cut off the blood flow to his brain. His eyes closed and he passed out, thus allowing me to lay him on the floor to take a nice late morning nap.

  I moved past him and on into the bathroom to see two guys. One was holding Bill against the wall, and the other was standing back a few feet, brandishing a pistol, and asking the questions. All of them looked as though they had been in a scuffle, but Bill looked the worst and had blood seeping from his nose and mouth. He glanced my way and a semblance of a smile formed on his lips as we exchanged a little non-verbal communication. He knew I was about to take out the gunman, which meant he was free to take care of the other asshole.

  I slipped quietly across the floor to within arms reach of potty guard two and noticed that he was carrying a Beretta 92 but still had the safety engaged. Clearly, it was more of a psychological show, and that would make my job a lot easier, as I could now operate without the possibility of an accidental discharge hitting Bill—or me for that matter. Still, it was a firearm only a thumb flick away from becoming a deadly weapon, so I needed to disarm the prick. I reached around the gunman’s right side, grabbed the pistol with both of my hands, and wrenched it up and back towards me. It broke his trigger finger and practically dislocated his shoulder as he was jerked backward onto his ass. At that point I easily pulled the gun free and used it as a club to hit the side of his neck, which traumatized the barrow receptors in the carotid artery and knocked him out cold. It probably seemed a bit harsh, but that’s what happened when you pointed guns at my friends.

  “Look out!” Bill yelled.

  Potty guard number three had gotten free of Bill and was moving in my direction, so it was a matter of utilizing my longest weapon—namely, a kick—either front, side, or back. In the movies, you always saw the hero do a fancy pants high spinning kick to the bad guy’s head, but that was just a bunch of flashy Hollywood horse shit. The foot should never really go any higher than your waist or you lost precious balance and put yourself in unnecessary peril. High kicks were therefore only used for practice, movies, blind people, and drunks, but my attacker met none of the aforementioned criteria. Still, I decided to get a little fancy, and, when he was only a step away, I set about performing a right spinning back kick. I sighted my target over my left shoulder to time his arrival then quickly rotated clockwise, twisting and delivering what most people would agree is the most powerful kick in the martial arts arsenal. It landed square in his midsection and stopped him cold in his tracks, likely cracking a few ribs and possibly even his sternum in the process. He dropped to his knees and stared wide-eyed in shock as he tried to breathe. It gave Bill plenty of time to walk over, grab him by the scruff of the neck, and slam him headlong into the nearest urinal. It knocked him out, and Bill hit the flush button, thus submerging the man’s beard in a swirling sea of urine and pubes.

  “How was your dump?” I asked.

  “I’m starting to give some real thought to what you said about public restrooms.”

  “Welcome to my world. How’s your head? I don’t like the look of all that blood.”

  “It’s OK, I think, but you don’t happen to have an identical twin standing next to you, do you?”

  “Nope, just me. I better check you out.”

  I gave Bill a quick examination and found an ugly bleeding lump on the back of his head.

  “Any dizziness, nausea, or ringing in the ears?”

  “Yes, yes, and yes.”

  “Shit. I think you have a concussion. We better get you to a hospital. Any preference?”

  “Yeah, Ted knows where to go.”

  I helped Bill get to the car, and we bid a not too fond farewell to the Mall of the Emirates, thankfully having no more contact with the very cranky Sheikh Emir or any more of the tenacious potty guards.

  “So, what exactly happened back there?” I asked.

  “I had just finished up on the toilet and was washing my hands when they jumped me. It’s a little hazy after that, and all I remember is that they kept asking about you.”

  “I didn’t know I was that popular in Dubai.”

  “Yeah, perhaps we shouldn’t be spending so much time together. It’s bad for my health.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I have a feeling those assholes decided to go after you when they couldn’t get to me, but, on the bright side, I’ll hopefully be out of your hair tonight.”

  Ted took Bill to an emergency care clinic for expats then dropped me back at my hotel, where I swung by the cafe in the lobby and grabbed a quick lunch before returning to my room. I relaxed on the couch, put my feet up on the coffee table, and stared out at the view, taking some quality time to reflect and think about recent events. In the course of a week, I had nearly been run off a cliff in my car, survived a crash landing in a jumbo jet, and now, seemed to bring violence and chaos to all I encountered. Fuck, regardless of what Matheson and Vandenberg believed, there was definitely something awry within the Topless Agenda and its plan. Oh well, only time would tell, so I decided
to follow the age old special operations adage that you slept when you could. To that end, I closed my eyes and drifted off into an afternoon nap, ever hopeful that my subconscious might find some order in the chaos.

  I awoke an hour and a half later to the sound of my room phone buzzing, and I answered it to learn that my tuxedo had been delivered to the front desk, and they would be sending it up to me shortly. I made a cappuccino while I waited, and, five minutes later, a valet was handing me a garment bag with a Dolce & Gabbana logo. I tipped the guy then walked upstairs to the bedroom for a quick dump and a shower. First, and most importantly, I took a sip of my cappuccino then settled onto the toilet, hopeful to make up for the dumpus interruptus I’d suffered earlier in the day. Thankfully, I spent the next several minutes alone with nothing but my thoughts to fill the void, and, not too surprisingly, I kept thinking about the Topless Agenda and whether or not one of them would be crazy or stupid enough to break free and challenge the group. None of the members were either crazy or stupid, so it stood to reason that the threat was external, but, again, who would know about them, let alone go up against people with their kind of power.

  I finished my coffee, flushed, and stepped into the shower of showers, and let the five powerful showerheads pummel my body from head to toe with gloriously hot water. I applied shampoo to my hair then soaped up, all the while smiling to myself as I thought about all the awesome shower sex I’d been having as of late. Life really seemed to flow like an experiential sine wave with its various ups and downs, and, right now, I was happy to be riding the current peak of sexual activity for as long as it lasted.

  Clean and alone, I dried off and put on all the amenities of civilized society before stepping into my room to get dressed. I started with undergarments then moved on to the other stuff like pants, shirt, and most important of all, my shoulder holster and pistol. A man in my position needed to be prepared, especially when he was about to steal the golden goose from the guys who had all the gold. My final step was to slip on my jacket then step in front of the mirror and pull out my gun and assume the most classic of James Bond poses. There was nothing quite as self-esteem boosting as a proper fitting tuxedo, and now I was officially dressed to kill, both literally and figuratively.

  “The name’s Finn, Tag Finn, and it’s time to lock up your daughters,” I said.

  I holstered my pistol then made another turn in front of the mirror to be sure that the gun didn’t show under the jacket. Satisfied, I headed downstairs to make a martini and wait for my ride. I went to the bar and added the requisite vodka and vermouth before taking a seat over by the window, where I could enjoy the scenic view of Dubai. It was reaching the end of the day, and the high-rise buildings were glowing in the remnants of the late afternoon sun. Minutes passed, and, as darkness filled the land, the lights of the city flickered on and officially brought Dubai’s nightlife alive. As I finished my martini, my phone buzzed, and I picked it up to hear a woman’s voice.

  “Mr. Finn, your ride is here,” she said.

  “Thank you. I’ll be right down.”

  I left my room and headed for the elevator feeling ever excited to see my new friend Olivia and, hopefully, my old friend Farid.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Boys Will be Boys

  THE CAR AT the entrance of the hotel was a white Mercedes Maybach 62S, and the first and only time I had ever ridden in one was last week on my way to the Topless Agenda’s meeting in Majorca Spain. Maybach was a privately owned German company in the old days but now was owned by Daimler and, therefore, more of a glorified Mercedes meant to compete with Rolls Royce and Bentley in the luxury car market. Sadly, the brand was now merged into the parent company as an extreme high end edition called the Mercedes-Maybach, so this meant it might be one of the few rides I’d ever take in a pure version of this showcase of German craftsmanship.

  The driver, a clean cut, well-dressed Arabic man, waited patiently at the rear of the car, and, as I approached, he nodded and opened the door at the very last minute to be sure that the rear compartment remained cool and comfortable for his passenger. I slipped inside and sat down while he closed the door and walked around to the front. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if he might be an impostor, and this was all just a very expensive trap, as this was usually the part in a James Bond movie where the car doors locked and Bond found himself imprisoned and unable to escape. To assail my fears I reached over and rolled down the window a crack, and was relieved that, for the moment at least, I could still find a way out of the car. I therefore relaxed and settled back into the luxurious seat to enjoy yet another drive through the formidable city of Dubai.

  Olivia was staying at the Ritz-Carlton, which resided about fifteen miles northeast of my hotel. There was still plenty of traffic at this time of day, but riding in the cool comfort of the Maybach made it a fairly civilized and particularly pleasurable drive. About twenty minutes later, we pulled up in front of the Ritz-Carlton, and the driver, as he had with me, stepped out to open the door for Olivia. I also stepped out to properly greet my date and, upon seeing her, felt the need to reach down and adjust my penis, which was already starting to swell and strain against the fabric of my pants. Sweet burning fire in my loins! She was looking utterly stunning with her long blond hair blown out and her beautiful face accented with some sultry eye shadow and a deep red lipstick. The journey of my eyes was far from over, however, for just below, resided her ample cleavage, which bulged from the top of her tight black dress and told the tale of her curvaceous figure in the kind of exacting detail that would surely haunt my dreams for many a lonely night to come.

  “You’re looking so absolutely beautiful that I’m thinking I should maintain a six foot safety radius because ejaculation is a clear and present danger.”

  “Well, thank you, Tag, and might I say that you’re also looking orgasmically divine this evening.”

  “You mean for a somewhat attractive, though unlikable, shitbag?” I asked.

  She smiled and looked ever so slightly embarrassed.

  “Yeah, pretty much, and, for the record, I only called you somewhat attractive to keep you humble.”

  “There’s no need. That’s what high school was for. Now, Cinderella, shall we enter the carriage and head to the ball?” I asked, gesturing towards the door.

  She climbed inside, and I followed and took a seat beside her, and we held hands and smiled at each other like silly teenagers on their way to their first prom.

  “So far, I’d say our third date is going pretty well,” I said.

  “Yeah, and let’s hope it ends as well as the last one.”

  The driver returned to his seat, and soon we were heading northeast up the coast of Dubai.

  “So, Tag, do you know very much about the UAE?” Olivia asked.

  “Some, but I’m always eager to learn more,” I said.

  “Well then, let me be your tour guide for the drive, and hopefully I’ll have some unusual facts for you about this place. Now, I assume you know that the Burj Khalifa is the highest building in the world?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, did you know that it is so tall that its residents from the eightieth floor and higher need to wait longer to break their fasts during Ramadan because the sun is still visible?”

  “I didn’t know that, but it makes sense.”

  “OK, now here’s a weird one. Dubai has no address system, no zip codes, no area codes, and no postal system, so mail has to go to PO boxes, and home deliveries use landmarks such as supermarkets or gas station as reference points.”

  “That probably doesn’t do a lot for internet sales.”

  “Definitely not, but it would explain why they have the biggest mall in the world.”

  Olivia continued her talk, telling me about the various landmarks, including the theme park Dubailand which was going to be twice the size of Disneyworld in Florida, and would supposedly be the most popular tourist destination by 2020. Eventually, our journey took us inland, trav
eling another ten miles before passing the University of Sharjah and turning left at a roundabout onto the street that led to the official entrance of the Royal Palace. Our final turn was a right onto an opulent tree lined street that took us to a gatehouse manned by serious looking men in uniforms. The driver showed them a document, then we continued on up a gradual hill and past a towering obelisk to at last see the Royal Palace. It was a square three-story structure which demonstrated some fine Islamic architectural style with its onion domes on the roof and wrap around ledges that added texture to its upper levels. The immediate grounds were of course ornately landscaped with lush lawns and greenery, and it helped make the building stand out in stark contrast from the surrounding desert—which was obviously the point. Of course, I had to wonder why the palace was inland and away from the beautiful seaside, but I suppose they would simply reroute the ocean here should the desire for an oceanfront view ever arise. It must be nice to be a member of the Dubai Royal Family, where neither the sea nor sky could limit their dreams and aspirations. I turned my attention to the line of cars waiting to drop off their passengers and suddenly felt a moment of panic as I contemplated what kind of security they would have at the main door.

  “Will they have metal detectors at the entrance to the Royal Palace?” I asked Olivia.

  “Doubtful. Too many of the locals carry ceremonial daggers and all number of weapons, and it would be insulting to have them check them at the door. Why do you ask?”

  I slid open my jacket and revealed my pistol.

  “Don’t worry your pretty little head, Mr. Bond. I think you’ll be OK.”

  Upon hearing Olivia’s words, I relaxed—a little. Our car was third in line behind a green Rolls Royce and two Bentleys, one sky blue and the other black. Their prestigious passengers disembarked, and we at last reached the front of the line, where a well-dressed man opened our door and welcomed us to the Royal Palace of Dubai. We walked up the short stairs and entered what would be my first royal ball, and, true to Olivia’s prediction, there were no metal detectors. We made it past the official greeters and were soon in the palace, where the sound of classical music, clinking champagne glasses, and the low murmur of a multitude of conversations filled the air. I did a quick reconnaissance and pinpointed my first and most important stop—namely, the bar, but, before we could reach it, one of Olivia’s coworkers, most likely a fellow lawyer, appeared at her side and did his best to sound suave and important as he chatted her up. He was about my height and weight and looked like your typical San Francisco professional with his purposeful hipster five o’clock shadow. He was good looking, fit, and probably seemed like a catch by all accounts, but there was no adequate facade to cover an ugly personality except perhaps silence—and he wasn’t exactly the silent type. In only five words, I already had a clear picture of his over inflated sense of self and corresponding insecurity. What kind of asshole opens up a dialog with the words how good do I look? He didn’t even say hello or tell her how good she looked. Not surprisingly, Mr. Charming took an instant dislike to me and smiled smugly as he put his arm around Olivia’s waist. That was offensive enough, but he took it one step further by sliding his hand down until it was perched directly on her buttocks. It was a dick guy move to try and claim a woman as territory, and it made me think he might be one of the elite cadre of jackass coworkers who were eagerly awaiting their chance to bone her if, and when, she became single. Fortunately, Olivia wasn’t having any of it and very politely moved his hand away. Mr. Charming tried to recover his dignity by flagging down a nearby waiter and grabbing a glass of Champagne off his tray before holding it up to toast.