I must warn you beforehand, this contains graphic descriptions of sex and violence along with nonstop explicit language, all beginning in the first paragraph. The easily offended should read something else. Like The Exorcist, maybe.
All right then. Ready? Let’s do it.
For Tragic Jack today started off all sunshine and tits. Blue skies and pussy. Ice cream and blowjobs. A good day. A fucking great goddamn hell of goddamn fucking day. The kind of day where the last thing you expect is for a hundred and four pound girl in a plastic halo to murder you and masturbate to the sound of your bubbly, gargling death rattle.
But let’s face it. If Tragic Jack’s life was all cotton candy and ass cheeks, they would have called him Magic Jack.
What tonight should have been was a simple courier job, ten thousand dollars in the bank, drinks from the mini bar and free HBO. It should have been easy money, a quiet night in, and bon voyage to Scud City before sun up. But classic Tragic Jack, he had to go and meet the devil in the halo. By sundown Tragic Jack was in the hot tub with Limber Ginger and about to hit the tragic jackpot.
It was afterlife night at One-Night Stan’s and it was quite the sight for soul-dead eyes. Girl’s barely out of high school wearing nothing but halos and glitter, pointy tails and horns, Black Sabbath blaring from every direction, Dio’s voice telling the crowd about Heaven and Hell, assuring the fools they had to bleed for the dancer.
Little Ginger in the halo and the pretty white thong, peculiar thing that she was, she was just a little too happy to rub that gorgeous chest of hers in Tragic Jack’s face, a little too enthusiastic about grinding her buttocks up and down Tragic Jack’s lap and stroking his little dick through his dirty jeans. And when Ginger put her big warm lips to Tragic Jack’s ear and said, “I’ve got a break coming. Do you want to be my lunch?” Tragic Jack was a big plastic dildo in the naughty angel’s hands.
Tragic Jack was a tragic-looking man, and it wasn’t every day a teenage seductress threw herself at him—especially not one with a body worthy of a centerfold in Playboy (or Jugs at the very least). Realistically, how many chances did a three hundred pound man with a hairy back and a four inch penis get to spend an hour with a perfect ten? Frankly, any girl above a four point two had to have a few screws loose to want an evening with Tragic Jack, and a knockout like Ginger was probably clinically insane to so much as wink at him, but he was prepared to accept that.
“Touch my dick,” Tragic Jack said to her when they were alone in the hot tub at his motel. This was about the extent of sweet talk to which the poor bastard was capable.
“Be patient, baby,” Ginger said as she kissed his neck. “I’m going to do things to you you can’t even imagine.”
The girl was a Tasmanian devil of sexual tension. Her hands and lips were at once everywhere on his body except the place he wanted them most, and any time he tried to shove her hand into his crotch or grab hold of her nether regions like a bowling ball she seemed to pull back and tell him to calm down and let her take control.
She told him to have patience.
She told him it would be a crazy night.
That she was a bad girl.
That this would get naughty.
Everything was all peaches and ass juice until the voice of Phil Collins came flying out of the radio fucked Tragic Jack right up the metaphorical backside. As Mr. Collins’ voice filled the air tonight, Ginger jumped up and said, “Oh Lord!”
“My favorite fucking song!” she said.
Tragic Jack smiled. If she was happy, he assumed he should be even happier. Ginger straddled his naked body and rocked her hips from side to side, lifting her hands over her head and pushing her breasts into his face. Jack grabbed hold of her and pushed her down onto one of the benches. Maybe that was what she was after. Maybe these last thirty minutes of foreplay had been her way of pushing him to a breaking point so he’d just throw her down and take her by force. If that was what she wanted he was willing to oblige.
“Wait,” she said. “Hang on. Just a sec.”
He begrudgingly let her go and she pecked him on the lips like a bird of prey ripping the eye out of a carcass before pushing away and standing up.
“We need louder music,” she said. She climbed over him to jump out of the tub, deliberately giving him a nice view of the fleshy skin tube he’d spent all night trying to get into.
She cranked up the already loud music to the point that Jack feared other customers or motel staff might discover what they were up to before he could get anywhere with the girl. But he couldn’t stop her. Not when he could see what the music did to her. She swayed with the rhythm, rocking her hips from side to side and running her hands up and down her naked dripping body.
Jack tried to think of something dirty to say.
“Yeah, I want to fuck that pussy so good.”
Ginger grinned. She ran one of her hands down between her legs and slid a finger up inside herself the way her father probably did when she was little. She closed her eyes, lifted her chin and moaned softly.
Phil Collins sang, I can feel it blah blah in the blah tonight.
Tragic Jack couldn’t take much more of this. He was ready to feel it coming in the water tonight. He wanted the girl now. Her mouth, her hand. Something. He’d been patient. He’d been waiting for this moment for all his life.
Ginger danced toward him and then back toward the boom box. Forward. Back. Forward. Back. She leaned onto the table where the boom box was sitting, sticking her ass at him, taunting him.
And then, before Mr. Phil Collins could even say the words, Ginger let Tragic Jack know that if he was drowning, she would not lend a hand.
With all the showmanship of a magician pulling a hatchet out of her hat, Ginger grabbed hold of the boom box and hurled it forcefully into the hot tub.
There was a burst of light and a loud bang. The air jumped out of Tragic Jack’s lungs. His body tensed and his vision pinholed.
Ginger ran toward him.
Jack tried to jump out of the water and grab her. He wanted to slap some sense into the bitch or at least go back to his hotel room and jerk off. But when he tried to stand he found his legs had trouble responding to his brain. His whole body moved as though he’d smoked a pound of marijuana the day after an intense workout and a bad sunburn.
Ginger grabbed hold of the hot tub cover and pulled it down over Tragic Jack’s head, pushing him down into the water. She padlocked the cover in place, turned jets to full blast and the water temperature to a hundred and ten Fahrenheit just to be a bitch, and then she lay on top of the tub.
“Where’s the money, baby?” she asked loudly.
Jack didn’t hear this. He was face down in the water with only an inch of air between the cover and the surface of the water. He flailed his fat body around, trying to flip himself over so he could get some air, and even after he did manage to turn over he found that the force from the jets filled his air space with water more often than air. He inhaled some air and some water and started to cough.
“What the fuck!” he screamed.
And oh God, did Ginger need this. She hadn’t killed a man in six weeks and that was longer than any girl ought to go without release. After a solid hour in this fucker’s lap, getting her face and breasts scratched by the stubble on his greasy face, getting fondled and groped and talked to like she was a slut, an hour of pretending she couldn’t wait to jump on the dime-roll of a dick he’d been hiding under the clamshell that was his gut; now—now that he was trapped in the water six inches below her, coughing and choking and cursing—finally, for the first time all night, Ginger started to get wet.
“Tell me where the money is!” said Ginger.
Tragic Jack stopped everything for a moment and realized what was happening. He didn’t know what money she meant specifically, but suddenly he knew what this was all about.
“Let me fucking go! We’ll figure it out!” he managed to say before he was interrupted by horrible coughing, choking and gagging. “Help me, please! I’m drowning!”
He was starting to sob as he begged for his life and now Ginger couldn’t resist putting a hand between her thighs to pleasure herself. Nights like this were the reason she worked for Stan. Nights when she really got to cut loose. She pulled her feet up to her butt and spread her legs like butterfly wings as she listened to the man below her screaming inaudibly. He pounded on the cover with his fists and his legs, trying to break loose. She could feel each hit on her back and each one left her more aroused.
And Jack tried to give in. He really did. When it settled in that he had too little space in the closed off tub, too little strength after the electric shock, and too little momentum to kick and punch his way out, he tried to tell the bitch everything. He tried to tell her about the phone call that had been relayed three times to tell him to come to this hotel and to be in this room at 6pm. He tried to tell her about the note that had been slid under his door a few hours ago. The note that said:
THE PAY PHONE OUTSIDE ONE-NIGHT STAN’S. 11 PM SHARP.
He tried to tell her he was just making a delivery and he didn’t know what he was picking up or where he was delivering it, but if she’d just let him go they could go pick up the money together and she could have every last cent of it and he’d never tell a soul about any of this for the rest of his life and she could have all of his money and his truck and his clothes and she could kill his fucking sister for all he cared as long as she let him out of this goddamn watery prison.
He tried to tell her all of this, but he was coughing and gasping for breath and vomiting up chemical water and his own piss, so what came out was more like, “WaititsnotidontknowohgodilltellyouPLEASE! ACHKCACK! We’ll… We’ll go gRAAAUUUAGGGHHH-AHH FUCK!! AUGGHHHAAAAHAAAAHAAAA!”
And Ginger knew she should have let him go. She knew by now he’d suffered enough and she could get the information out of him if she just opened the cover and put her butterfly knife to his neck. In her heart of heartless hearts she knew this, but she was so goddamn close to climaxing and she couldn’t stop now.
She rolled onto her side, splaying her legs across the cover, going about business with one hand and pounding the other on the hot tub cover over and over as hard as she could.
Each time Jack pounded the bottom of the cover trying to get free, Ginger pounded the top in ecstasy. Each time he cried out in pain, she cried back in pleasure.
It has been said that the moment before drowning is a profoundly euphoric moment, that in his final moments of life, a drowning victim will suddenly feel at peace and die in a state of extreme comfort. Perhaps it was only because the hot tub contained more vomit and fecal matter than it did water, but Tragic Jack felt no such euphoria.
Ginger, on the other hand, felt plenty. And as Tragic Jack was going quiet, she put her lips to the top of the cover, opened her mouth, and gave one final rapturous scream to be sure he knew just how good his death was for her.
And Jack died.
And Ginger came.
Thirty seconds went by in silence. Just a naked woman lying on a hot tub cover in the pool area at a cheap motel on the shitty side of town.
Ginger suddenly felt stupid. She hoped there weren’t creepy old men standing by the windows in their rooms and watching the show she’d just put on. She jumped off the hot tub and put on the jogging suit she’d left the club in, dressing as quickly as possible as she suddenly felt very modest.
She’d fucked up. Stan had been very clear. She could do anything she wanted with Jack after she had the money but she was not to do anything rash until then. Now he was dead and they had no more information than they had an hour ago. The money was as good as lost.
In a last ditch effort, she dug through Jack’s wallet, but she found only a room key, a driver’s license, six dollars, and a condom he’d made no effort to use all night. Son of a bitch.
She lit a cigarette and walked out of the pool area, back toward One-Night Stan’s, leaving Jack’s bloated body cooking in the hundred and ten degree water.
Poor old Tragic Jack, he was just the first of a dozen people in Scud City who would be dead by sunrise. You could feel it coming in the air tonight.
One-Night Stan’s will be released Wednesday, December 21 in the Kindle Store. It will be priced at $2.99 after a special $.99 release price for the first 48 hours.