The Russians told jack it would be best if he waited inside as they were familiar with the girls and would have no difficulty moving both, them and the Vodka, from the crate into the dungeon. It didn't feel right to Jack but he followed through with direction and went through the thick fog into his house. Within 20 minutes the larger of the two Russians appeared in the threshold stating that all was in place and warned Jack never to contact them again. He pulled back the side of his winter coat to reveal a hand gun strapped to his side. Jack said nothing, only nodded in agreeance. As the fog rolled out, so did the transport truck. No turning back now. Jack poured himself a whiskey on the rocks and went to check out the merchandise. The lock worked perfectly. Jack entered the dungeon it was cold and quiet, when Jack pulled on the chain attached to the trouble light, he knew instantly that something was horribly wrong.
Jack knew that Bishop would be pissed off but he had to call someone.
"Bishop, those fucking Ruskies have fouled me, they ripped me off, one of the girls is missing fingers and another an eye. Fuck, they where supposed to be blond, and man do they smell bad. They were to be fully functional and one can't bend her knee. As for the Vodka, it's airline sized bottles, I've got stacks of these little fucking bottles. And one of the girls just repeats herself over and over and I don't know how to quiet her, there must be a string to pull somewhere and they seem to be made of some light weight styrofoam, not even close to the weight of a real woman.
Bishop laughs of relief could be heard throughout the valley.
2 comments:
Wholly shit this is crazy! Jd
Jack
As a Consort of yours, a felahine who will trapse over bent rail road tracks and a marsh of boiling hot vodka bottles, the disturbing realities of your business savoy make it impossible for me to sleep. It's akin to Burroughs letting baby boy scorpions crawl over his cock and balls, waiting for the sting that will send him to heavens lonely ecstasy or the witch doctor's scalpel. The hideous bind you now have found yourself in is nothing short of being trapped in sticky spiders web. Are you the spider or are you the prey? What ails you? These burdens are now clear. Paltry bottles of vodka. Demented and deranged human beings. Is it possible they can manage the root seller? Likely cost more to feed them. Perhaps they are not as damaged as they appear. And you can spear head a kind of amnesty for Russian crate girls. The beating off will have to happen on the side. But, the selling of tickets for peeps at the babes and then a beat off pit( which you already have) could be the way out. By all accords, Jack, you are going to have to build up their self esteem. Without propping up your own too damn much. Isn't it a bloody waste of energy collecting your brandy money this way? When you could paint one insane vision and have a red headed sex goddess confuse your work for someone other wanking dork who's cave pit has a heated seat and a time travel machine?
The Consort
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