Predator Press
[LOBO]
Out on the Las Vegas city limits,
The Hotel Palm was quite detached from the glamour and glitz. In fact, were there not slot machines in the lobby, you might guess you were in the middle of Arizona.
It was three in the morning, but Sandra wore sunglasses to cover her badly-bruised face. Indeed, with the dark wig and trench coat, she looked rather like a Russian spy in a bad "B" movie.
She found the elevator and the stairs roughly at the same time.
On a gut-level instinct, she chose to take the stairs.
***
In the still night, Dean easily heard the car door outside. Heart racing, he flipped the safety on the stolen nine millimeter. A large man, he crouched -almost impossibly small- in the corner behind the door.
In the dark, he held the gun in both hands as he listened.
Sandra tapped lightly. "Dean!" she whispered, afraid. She knew the gun was pointed at her. "It's
me."
Dean flicked the safety back on and stood. This certainly
could be a setup. But he was now a wanted thief and a
killer; even if Sandra betrayed him, he wouldn't endanger her in a firefight. Summoning his courage, he cracked the door open.
And a battered, barefoot Sandra stood there alone.
"Baby," he said pulling her into the small room. Locking the door behind him, he kissed her forehead, her diminutive frame disappearing almost completely in his bear-like embrace. "He can't hurt you anymore. He's gone."
She sobbed into his chest.
"You shouldn't have come here baby. Were you followed?"
"No."
She could smell the recently-fired gun as he tucked it in his jeans. He gently pulled her wig away, the glasses, looking at the inflamed cuts and swollen bruises carefully, consciously trying not to wince. He had never actually
met Sandra before, and he mirthlessly mused that a savage monster had ironically rendered her so he never
would see her beauty.
As the poor lighting brought his face close to hers, Sandra laughed a little, embarrassed. "I'll be okay in a few days."
Wondering if she had more injuries, Dean opened the trench coat. She wore nothing underneath but a tattered silk blouse. Buttons torn away, the blouse did little to cover her ample breasts.
Instantly erect, Dean pushed her back on the bed.
"Wait," she protested.
In the darkness, he followed her smooth athletic thighs with large, powerful hands, finding her soft clit. Fingertips tracing over the soft, wet flesh -it was either shaved or
extremely trim; he couldn't tell, and did not care- he kissed his way closer, drinking in her sweet, natural aroma. Her hard thighs locked tightly around his head as he sucked her off. She climaxed, quickly and violently against his face.
Another car door slam.
"Goddamn it!" says Dean, rising to his feet. "What the hell am I
doing?" he asks the air, furious with himself.
Sandra pulled the long coat around her as she sat up, confused.
Fearfully, he peeks out from behind the curtain on the window. "Baby, I'm a wanted man by a
lot of really pissed-off people. We shouldn't be together right now." He watches four plain-clothed cops get out of the car, heading for the motel registration office.
You always can tell a cop by how he sizes up a situation.
"It's dangerous," he continued. Unexpectedly, he turns on the light. "Do you have your passport?"
Sandra pats her coat pocket. "Yes".
Kneeling, Dean slides out a black briefcase from under the bed. And then another, similar. "It would be smart to separate the cash too." He flips one open, revealing half of 2.2 million dollars. "Now we have to do this as
planned. Get your ass out of here and meet me in Rio, one month from today."
As she gathered herself, he handed the closed bag to her. Kissing her gently on a bruised lip, he whispered, "I love you."
The door clicked shut, and from behind the window's curtain Dean watched her slink into the darkness. The police, still in the office, were probably not expecting to actually
find him here in a place so painfully obvious. That was the one advantage of the cops finding him
first. The mob would have already posted thugs.
The cops were muddying up the mob search by virtue of merely being present.
***
In the bathroom, he quickly liquefied a rather large and lethal dose of heroin. While Dean had never actually
done heroin before, during his time in prison he had gleaned enough about the subject from addicts to be familiar with the subject.
And
connections for that matter.
He tied the small rubber tourniquet over his elbow, and patted for a visible vein. With the hypodermic --almost cartoonishly small in his nervous fingers-- he went back to the hotel bed where over a million dollars cash lie exposed to all in a carelessly sprawled briefcase.
A loud bang issued at the door. "Open up!" said the forceful, disembodied voice. "It's the police!"
Finishing the hypo plunge took great concentration. Dean had never administered a shot on himself before.
"We know you're in there!"
A sweet-tasting cottony sensation came over Dean's mouth.
"Go ahead," the faraway voice commanded. "Break it down."
Dean's room imploded, a fantastic display of frantic light and color. Surrounded, he looks up smiling as one of the cops climbs on his massive chest in an attempt to revive him.
The trail ends here officer, he grins helplessly, fading.
And I ain't telling you shit.
Predator Press
Aside from her rather striking makeup style, Tammy Faye Messner is probably best remembered for her doomed marriage to television evangelist Jim Bakker who, due to his extramarital affair with Jessica Hahn, was subsequently exposed and found guilty of numerous crimes including mail fraud and conspiracy.
“All art is suffering,” says the aficionado. “Michelangelo had censoring detractors. Van Gogh had depression. I don’t see how Tammy Faye running out of cold cream at 3 am at a Holiday Inn would be any different.”
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