There fond reminisces about the night before, and some of their past sexual encounters, was abruptly cut short when Beth noticed something out of the corner of her eye and stood up hurriedly, telling Debbie that she had to go. Across the street she had spied a man leaving a Fiesta Inn Express and getting into a big, candy red Mercedes parked in the hotel's lot. It was the man she had been assigned to follow, and she had tracked him here to Huntington, West Virginia after following him from Dublin, Ohio. Beth's whole body was tense and poised, ready to spring into action. It got Debbie feeling hungry. She looked over in the direction of the parking lot and watched as a big, brand spanking new Range Rover pulled up next to the eyesore of a Mercedes. She and Beth observed with bated breath as the guy hopped out of his car and handed the man in the Mercedes a big, shiny silver briefcase. The type of briefcase that looked like it had a lot of money in it. Debbie smelled trouble from inside the restaurant. She knew that when it came to drugs and large sums of money things could get hairy real quickly. When that much moolah was involved the dealers had big heads and even bigger addictions themselves and they could be erratic and irrational, destroying themselves and the agent sent out to bring them down in a high speed chase or a crazy shoot out. She knew Beth could handle herself well, but she was itching for some action and so she offered to go along.
"Hey Beth," Debbie said, grabbing her arm firmly before she ran out the door. Beth looked back at her with wild eyes, desperate for the hunt. "You want some company? Just for old times sake?" Beth smiled, "Sure, why not," she replied. And the two were off.
They jumped into Beth's shiny black 1970 Chevelle SS 454. It wasn't the most inconspicuous car for an FBI agent to be driving, not with its bold white racing stripes and its loud, rumbling engine. They had not even been following the red Mercedes for more than half a mile when shots were fired. The driver had detected the two spies, keyed up by drugs and paranoia and all the money he was now carrying, and he was ready for a fight.
Beth easily dodged the wild, inaccurate gun fire coming at them, although one shot just nicked the driver's side mirror. "Dangit!" Beth yelled, mad that she was going to have to get her car detailed again. The driver of the Mercedes changed tactics, realizing he was just wasting bullets, and put his foot on the gas and hit the pedal to the metal. The Mercedes roared to life and quickly jumped from a brisk 60 miles per hour to a fast 90. He was planning to outrun the old Chevelle.
"Oh, it's on!" Beth exclaimed, getting excited for the chase that ensued. Looks could be deceiving, and Beth's Chevelle had no problem chasing down a Mercedes. Especially a bright red one. It wouldn't be hard to keep track of where her target was going. As Beth sped up to follow the Mercedes, which was gaining and gaining in speed, Debbie took out her gun and loaded it quickly. She began firing at the Mercedes, aiming for the tires. Her first shot barely missed, and as she was aiming her second shot, sure this time she would hit, the women were surprised by counter fire. A bullet whizzed past Debbie's head, which was sticking out the side of the Chevelle. Looking in the rear view mirror, there was a Cadillac following them from behind, shooting bullets. It was a full on battle. Debbie fired back at the Cadillac, busting the glass in the window and slowing the pursuers down, at least momentarily. She took the opportunity to take her second shot at the Mercedes, and this time she hit the tire. She turned around to finish off the Cadillac as the driver of the Mercedes in front of them lost control and spun off the road and smack dab into a tree. It flipped over and the crumpled vehicle caught fire. Confident in her aim, Debbie had no problem taking out both front tires of the Cadillac, which was moving slowly now as the driver could not see through all the cracked glass. The Cadillac made donuts on the road, the back tires squealing as it spiraled in circles before coming to a standstill. When the driver of the Cadillac exited his vehicle Debbie shot him right between the temples and he went down instantly.
Forgetting about the Cadillac and its dead operator, Beth pulled up to the flaming Mercedes and she and Debbie checked to see if the driver was still alive. To their surprise, the car was completely empty. Beth frowned. Debbie's eyes had been on the Cadillac behind them, but she had been looking straight at the road. Surely she would have seen her target exiting the vehicle and running away. It made no sense. She was interrupted in her pondering by the sound of small objects, like little beads, spilling all over the ground. Debbie had pried open the trunk and there were thousands of little white pills falling out.
"That's a lot of Tylenol," Debbie said, "this guy must have some serious headache problems." Beth picked up a pill and showed it to her friend. "I don't think so, Debbie. These aren't Tylenol. They are oxycodone, basically legal heroine. These are 30 milligram pills, they can go for as much as fifty bucks a pop on the street. These are the pure stuff, the instant release. Dope fiends go wild for this stuff. That is why I have been following this guy. West Virginia has a huge prescription drug problem and this guy is one of many dealers getting rich off the poor citizens of backwater towns throughout the state."
Debbie marveled, "there must be at least 100,000 tablets here!" Beth nodded, "That's right. These things go for thirty dollars a pop legally, and from thirty on up when you buy them on the street. I know you can do the math, Debbie. We are looking at about $3,000,000 worth of product just in this truck." Debbie balked, and she and Beth searched the Mercedes for that shiny metal suitcase they had seen earlier, but they couldn't find anything. The car was really flaming now, and Debbie knew it would blow soon. The women returned to the Chevelle and drove to a safe distance and then watched the Mercedes explode.
"That's a lot of money to go unaccounted for. Someone is going to have a real problem explaining all this," Beth tells Debbie. Debbie had managed to snatch a large handful of pills from the trunk before the rest went up in flame and she was inspecting it with a curious eye. "Are these the real deal or are they bootlegs?" she asked Beth. Beth took one of the pills out of her hand and gave it a once over. "I could be wrong, but I don't think so. These look like they are the real deal to me. Straight from the manufacturer, Best Health Pharmaceuticals."
Debbie muttered, "what the F-" under her breath. She did not know much about the prescription drug trade but this looked like some serious shit that Beth was knee deep in. She felt more than a bit worried for her friend. But, they were both agents, and she knew Beth could handle herself. She had no choice but to be on her way.
"Well, it's been fun, Beth," Debbie told her, "but I've got to get on down the road for a bit. I'm headed off to Kermit to visit my grandpa. Keep me informed about what is going on if you can. You know I always have your back!"
Beth nodded and gave her a ride back to the Awful Waffle, and Debbie got into her BMW and sped off the Kermit.
Chapter 2, A Big Donation to Help the Inner City
Back in Dublin, Ohio, where Beth had begun her mission, a middle aged housewife had taken the stage at a special fundraising breakfast for the local USA Women for Youth. Her name was Betty Gleason and she was a somewhat naïve, 40 something housewife. She was pretty, but not necessarily in a "mother I'd like to fuck" kind of way. Still, she had naturally good skin that remained firm and elastic even at her advanced age. She was the envy of many of the other women in the neighborhood, a lot of whom gossiped that she probably had lots of Botox injections or was eating placentas and fetal tissues purchased from the back of the local Planned Parenthood. None of that was true, of course. In fact, Betty was a strict vegetarian and she would never dream of eating placenta of even washing her hair with it. It just wasn't her style.
Betty had brown hair cropped into a short, trendy bob that all of the older women in the town liked to wear. She was an avid tennis player, and she was rarely seen without her expensive (150K expensive!) diamond tennis bracelet. Her husband had bought it for her on their twentieth wedding anniversary and it was a real treasure.
Here she was, not seeing the irony in wearing a bracelet that cost more than the majority of starter homes in the area
, speaking at a fundraising event for at risk families. Families that would shoot her dead in an instant if they had any idea of the amount of money she was wearing on her wrist. Totally unaware of her hypocritical posturing, Betty addressed the audience she stood before: a bunch of middle aged women like herself who were dressed up in outfits that cost over a grand and bedazzled in so much expensive jewelry they made tinkling sounds whenever they shifted in their seats or raised their bloody mary to their lips.
"My fellow women," Betty began, pausing briefly to clear her throat, "we are witnessing a great shame in our city of Dublin. Horrible things have been going on and they have been covered up for too long. There are horrible drug problems that are tearing the fabric of our city apart by its very seams. Crimes that seem almost unspeakable. Not only is the Afro-American population horribly addicted to crack, but they are spewing out babies like it is going out of fashion. I am talking about 13 year old mothers and 21 year old grandmothers raising crack babies in damp basements and crowded studio apartments. I don't know if raising is even the right word. The grandmother turns 21 and she feeds the family with booze and alcohol. No one works. She turns the 13 year old mother out on the street to perform what is called ‘tricks' for men called ‘johns.' They use this dirty money to buy alcohol and crack, and they often blow the crack smoke in the babies face to keep it calm. Sometimes the whole family overdoses and the baby starves to death, its bloodcurdling cries for milk growing dimmer and dimmer until its life is snuffed out. Neighbors hear the baby but they don't care. Finally, when someone comes to evict the family, they find a room filled with rotting corpses. The husbands are never around because they are in jail for life. When they hear about what happened they just laugh from their jail cells, happy. These atrocities are on a level of horror similar to a holocaust. Indeed, crack is annihilating the Afro-American race. It is genocide in the inner city. Something must be done to stop this, to turn the tides around. That is why my family has decided to make a very generous donation of twenty thousand dollars to the USA Women for Youth Joint Way chapter of Columbus, Ohio. Our money will help remedy these problems and will stop the assault on people of color living in our community."
There were polite cheers and claps. Not one of the boozed out, wealthy women seemed a bit disturbed to hear about crack babies starving to death in crumbling apartments. Not a single one choked on their drink or shed a tear or even ventured a frown about the great disparity that lay between them and their black neighbors. Nor did anyone object to the repeated reference to the holocaust. There was not a lot of Jewish pride among these Christian hens. They were not really here to help. They were here to show off and to hear who was donating what amount. It was a competition, a show, a pageant of wealth and one big tax write off.
"Oh, Betty," a woman stood up and gave her a hug and a European kiss on the cheek as Betty returned to her seat, "this is just SO wonderful what you are doing!" The woman's pickled brain had already lost track of just what it was Betty was, in fact, doing, but she did remember the figure of 20 grand. She knew what that could buy for herself.
Betty sat down and addressed the women seated at her table. "Well, ladies, it is just one small thing that we can do to help these poor African American families and the women and children in need. They need help. They don't mean to live like this, they just don't know better. Some of them even think they are happy, imagine that! We need to educate them about how they are living so badly, we need to educate them about breastfeeding and buying houses and being chaste and stopping at one child, two max. But we can't do that until we get all this crack off the street. What we really should be doing is locking up all these bad people dealing drugs. I don't know why the police can't do their duty and get these peddlers of death off the streets. Honestly, I wouldn't even mind giving them the death penalty! That would clean things up quick! Jail is just a slap on the wrist to these bad guys, it is a roof over their heads and some free food and a nice shower. It isn't a punishment. They need to have the fear of death put in them, alright. That would make them think twice!"
Yes, yes the women nodded. Many of them were imagining black dongs dangling in the shower, wondering how it might feel to get fucked by a real inner city negro. Imagining how much a hard bodied, black, sex deprived man like that would relish penetrating the body of a well to do white woman. They might be old, but they were still attractive to someone. They had been raised to know that the one thing a black thug wants more than anything in the world is a nice white woman to rape. They would let themselves be raped, cum, and then give the death penalty. That was the way to do it.
Only one of the women, a smart and sassy ex-lawyer who was now married to a politician, had a slight frown on her face. She smirked, and inquired of Betty, "What does your husband do for a living again, hon?"
Betty responded, "Oh, he is a wonderful man, my Joe. Joe Gleason, Vice President of Advanced Health Services at Best Health Pharmaceuticals. He is so wonderful working on producing all of these important, life saving drugs. He is behind our efforts all the way!"
The woman let out a tinkle of laughter at Betty's response, but once again the irony was lost on Betty. And the rest of the women were too smashed to care.
Chapter 3, A Spring Picnic
Joe Gleason was having a meeting of his own. He was dressed up in his business suit enjoying a picnic in an otherwise deserted park. It was a beautiful spring day, and his dining mate was also dressed in a suit. The two looked a bit out of place, for sure, but there was no one to see them. They were dressed as if they were in a meeting room, but they were sitting on a fine cashmere blanket spread over a blue plastic tarp. They were sharing a bottle of champagne as they talked business and they had shrimp canape and caviar set out before them on fine china. They were laughing occasionally as they sipped on their champagne, letting the bubbly go to their head.
They sharpened up as there was the sound of a car engine being shut off. Another finely dressed man was approaching them. He seemed to be sweating profusely under his suit, and he had a big, blotchy red rash spreading over his chest and neck. He was biting his lip and fidgeting nervously with his fingers.
"Mr. Gleason," he said, extending his hand for a shake. Joe's partner stood up and shook the man's hand, but Joe remained seated, completely ignoring the new guest. "Mr. Gleason?" the man tried again. Still no response. Joe's partner took a few steps back until he was standing behind the newcomer.
"Mr. Gleason, please," the man said, his voice cracking with desperation. "I can explain, just listen…"
Joe finally looked up. He gestured for the man to sit down. "Just call me Joe, son. Joe will be fine. Why don't you have a seat. Are you hungry? Would you like some champagne?" A wave of relief washed over the man's face and he took a seat, accepting a glass of bubbly and eagerly popping a shrimp down his trap. He got hungry when he was nervous. His belly growled loudly in appreciation of the food.
"Now that you are comfortable, why don't you explain to me what is going on? I sure have been looking forward to hearing what happened."
The other man gulped down his champagne greedily and looked up, "Mr. Gleason, err. Joe. Things happen. You know how that goes. Things just happen sometimes. That is the business we are in."
Joe smiled, it was an unsettling smile, his thin lips spread from ear to ear as if his face was about to split open. "But Sam, that was three and a half million dollars worth of product. And the money… What happened to all the money, Sam?"
Sam seemed shaken but he held firm. "I told you, it is a very long story, Joe." His stomach rumbled again loudly, punctuating the end of his sentence.
"Very fine," Joe said. "I really don't have time for long stories anyway. Let's keep this short." He gestured to the man standing behind him. "What do you think Edward? Let's shorten the story a bit, shall we?"
Ed nodded at his boss, pulled out a gun, and shot Sam in the back of the head.
Sam's stomach let out one final, long grumble as his body shut down. About
thirty seconds later there was the sound of wet gas as Sam's dead body voided itself. A stain of urine spread out from beneath Sam's body, spoiling the cashmere throw.
"Now, Ed, you see how handy this plastic tarp is? Learn from me, Ed, and you won't end up with the same fate as our partner Sam, here. Now wrap up this mess and get rid of it."
Chapter 4, Helping the People in Pain
Susan Summerset, a trendy looking young professional, was sitting in her Lexus chattering away on her headset. She was a lesbian career woman and she was currently reaping big profits working as a salesperson for Best Health Pharmaceutical. She was a slim, petite woman with pale skin. She dressed trendily, mostly in black. Her hair was naturally a dirty brown, but she dyed it light blonde regularly. She wore bright, deep red lipsticks that accentuated her pale, creamy skin. She would have looked at home on the red carpet, but she used her looks and spunk to make sales instead of winning adoring followers. Her clients were the only fans she needed in her life. They made her enough money that she could purchase a shiny, sky blue Lexus RC350 Sport Exclusive, 8 speed, with custom detailing. They made her enough money she could afford the finest purses, perfume, and only wore luxury clothing. They even made her enough money to take biannual trips to the Hotel for Nymphos just outside of Barcelona, Spain. Those were always great trips.
Right now she was parked in her blue beauty, talking in an irritated fashion to her mother. Susan was in the underground parking lot of the Veteran's Memorial, getting ready for a big address at the national sales conference for Best Health Pharma. As she talked to her mother she applied a fresh coat of lipstick and mascara in the rearview mirror. "Mwah!" she exclaimed as she kissed herself reflection.
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