Suggested Audio Jukebox ♫
 April March “Chick Habit”
 Eurythmics “Sexcrime (Nineteen Eighty-Four)”
 Aerosmith “Dude Looks Like A Lady”
 Britney Spears “Oops!…I Did It Again”
 De La Soul “The Magic Number”
 Republica “Ready To Go”
 Bananarama “Cruel Summer”
Before we go a solitary step further, I have to come clean. You see, that I wasn’t expecting. Are you ready for a quick recap? I hope so as I could do with a couple of minutes to process the sight I have just been made privy to. Okay so the bust of Madame Layla’s Bordello has been somewhat eventful, gone some way from smoothly, and has entailed a fair amount of grievous bodily harm. That said, all in all, it has been mildly successful and accounted for the coda of two more of our dirty dozen. Granted, my Achilles tendons have been snipped, my partner has failed miserably in the most rudimentary of tasks, and I was damn near forced to surrender my favorite wrist watch. But I never expected this to be a cake walk and what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger right? I never really understood that one as having my calf muscles pruned didn’t prove fatal but I’m reasonably certain that I’m not in a more powerful position right now. The pain is way beyond agonizing and a weaker man would have thrown in the towel back at the lobby. The thing is, I’m no wilting lily, I’m Nick McGovern dagnabbit – the most committed, resourceful, and bloody-minded cop on the force and proud owner of no less than five hooker scalps, which is pretty decent for a single night’s work.
So I’m currently hamstrung, big whoop, it still didn’t stop me from hauling my jaded ass to the penthouse and clocking the coordinates of number six on my death list. Cherry is all that stands between me and making the halfway point of my directive and I’m not about to let this opportunity slip through my fingers after the personal anguish I have suffered getting this far. However, I hadn’t been banking on company and, while Layla’s attendance does offer up something of a two-for-one package deal, it’s the package part I have an issue with. For any of you who have just joined us, please allow me to paint you a picture of how these two tyrannical temptresses stack up and I would recommend not searching for the straps as it would appear that these twin tallywackers operate of their own free will and this tosses one helluva wiener among the dog buns.
I know right? Unless I’m mistaken, Cherry and Layla are more like Chet and Leyton, and this casts rather a different complexion on the bust at hand. Let’s not buckle the bratwurst, my orders remain the same and I still fully intend on “shooting those hookers” just as per my instruction. But the element of surprise has been facilitated and I’m no longer quite so clear on how to proceed as previously. I know what you’re thinking, I shouldn’t be fazed by such an insignificant revelation, and you’d be right in that assumption. The problem is that it has now occurred to me just how little I know about those I’ve been tasked with executing and that old cat killer called curiosity has now cropped up unannounced. I was dead set on bursting in with all guns blazing and popping Cherry before she had the chance to bat her eyelids but now I just have so many questions to ask her and Layla is no less of a mystery to me.
At any rate, let me tell you what I already know about article number seven on your agenda. You see, Layla runs this whole shady operation from its hub, and is absolutely no stranger to either danger or its second cousin peril. While known primary for her industrious nature and entrepreneurial spirit, she is also not afraid to get her hands dirty with more manual procedures and has been reportedly responsible for the disappearance of over thirty businessman since 2013. Rumor has it that she runs a tight ship here and, should any of her strict guidelines not be adhered to, then Layla will think nothing about getting involved in a spot of subtraction. All other hoes up until now have been little more than bottom-feeders but she is our very first link to the upper tiers and the last woman on earth you would wish to psych out. Turns out that she’s also packing some winkle and that just reminds me how utterly clueless I am as to the kind of threat she poses. Granted, it’s not a patch on my partner’s Pan-Am purse plunderer, but nine out of ten women will tell you that it’s not the size that matters but what kind of jumbo damage it can inflict. They’re mostly lying of course but, the fact remains, that this hypnotic little curd herder is unlikely to be firing blanks.
Okay so last-minute change of plan on my painstakingly deliberated entrance tactics. Remaining in character will be pivotal here, at least until I’ve sussed out the lay of the land some. I’m not altogether sure whether these peaks come with their own accompanying valleys or how far the girls are through their transformation, but I will need every last one of my wits about me if I wish to come away with enlightenment and the questions I pose will be critical to not being thoroughly rogered by a pair of “uniques” who just so happen to also be professional. Casting my mind back to my tête-à-tête with Bambi at front desk, I seem to recall something about ten minutes alone with Cherry resulting in extensive reconstructive surgery and I already have to shell out for a new set of ankles so that would mean dipping even farther into my daughter Minnie’s college fund. At this rate, I’ll be divorced by the time the last of our dirty dozen bites rug, as I’m not relishing the heart-to-heart with my wife Meryl that involves explaining why our straight-A student sweetie pie is operating the chip fat fryer at McDonald’s drive-thru and not deliberating on the validity of string theory as was so hotly tipped. Let me put it this way, twelve gamy gutter grubs ain’t nothing on one embittered missus, particularly when said spouse carries your testicles in her clutch bag just to ensure that she has a pair of stress balls on hand in case she prangs her smart car during the school run.
Well I’m sick of putting my hand in my pocket and even sicker of being repeatedly shafted without so much as an “I love you”. That said, getting angry isn’t the only way to get even and, should empathizing with these skanks to lull them into a false sense of security not help beat ’em, then I’ve got the correct hardware to join ’em right? However the following transaction plays out, I know one thing – it’s gonna end with two dead hookers and one elevation in rank from lowly desk sergeant to slightly less lowly desk sergeant. Time to sleep with the enemy and make this shit three-way. Before the hour is out, my wascally wabbit will have burrowed a couple more warrens and neither of these he-bitches will have seen it coming. You’re darn tooting I’m undercover brother and no other can deny that, while two girls may indeed walk in with their itty bitty waists and round things in my face, I ain’t about to get sprung.
“I’m ever so sorry that I’m so frightfully tardy for my appointment Cherry”
“Who the fuck are you and what’s wrong with your legs?”
“I’m…erm…Mike Smith. Already cleared it with reception and, in answer to your other poser, erm…leg cramps?”
“Looks like you’re losing a little blood there Mike Smith”
“You know what it’s like trying to break in new shoes”
“Well now that you’re here, I guess you’d better drag yourself into that seat, and wait for me to finish up here”
“Have I come at a bad time?”
“Honey, you’ll know when you’ve come. Right now, I have some unfinished business to tend to with my lady here”
Lady? Perhaps there’s a spot of delirium going round. Not that I’m about to go pointing out the obvious, when Aerosmith can do a far more eloquent job of it. Take it away fellas and is it true that Hannah Montana is looking to hijack the Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster?
“You just go ahead and ignore I’m even here. Unless it looks like I’m about to pass out, in which case, that 111 call would be greatly appreciated”
“Oh we will, don’t you worry about that. Well the first part anyway”
It would appear that I’m on spectator duties and, while I wouldn’t consider myself a Peeping Tom per se, there was that one Christmas party when I huffed too much aerosol and snuck into the midnight matinée of Showgirls without first purchasing a ticket. The difference there is that Elizabeth Berkley didn’t possess a penis or, at least, not in a literal sense. I’ll give her one thing however, she sure had some testicles on her and I hear that Kyle Maclachlan hasn’t swam a solitary length ever since. If I simply must oversee this exchange of bodily fluids, then I guess I don’t mind taking this one for the team, out of vague curiosity if nothing else. I mean, is it all bound to end in hand jobs and, if so, then why waste your time writhing around like a couple of randy eels when you’re not gleaning any kind of stimulation whatsoever from the summit? Remember I’m a dude and therefore know only too well the significance of getting straight to the cum faces with minimum fuss and/or exertion so I can enjoy that hand-rolled Havana I’ve been promising myself for weeks. What next? Bringing it in for a hug afterwards? Don’t be preposterous. One thing is for certain, neither Cherry or Layla seem even remotely fazed by the intrusion and, if anything, appear even more willing to play now that they have themselves a captive audience. And make absolutely no mistake, I’m detained.
This detective work lark is exhausting and I’m bizarrely finding myself shorter in breath than our willing participants, such is the escalating heat being generated between those satin sheets. I’m starting to wonder whether they would raise any objection to me engaging in a spot of personal gratification at their expense, just to free up those sailors you understand. Who spares a thought for them? All hands on deck is all well and good but, with one dash of vowel reshuffling, there seems far more valid reason for these more than able semen to walk the plank. Should the ship be sinking as appears the case, then I see no harm or foul in them tapping up the plankton for temporary accommodation. Meanwhile, I earn myself a shot at becoming an Elvis impersonator and can head off to Vegas if my current vessel gets dashed on the rocks. Céline Dion made a decent fist of it and is living breathing proof that the heart it goes on. Plus I’ve always wanted to see the Blue Man Group in action. Are they actually blue men by the way? Do they inject themselves with Smurf hormones before each performance and are my childhood dreams about to be swiftly decimated or simply granted in a slightly different manner than I’d anticipated? And is that even a parasol that Smurfette’s straddling?
My not altogether sincere apologies if I have a tendency to run off at the mind but the pesky thing only has one speed once that nervous energy strikes and, it’s either that, or challenge Bobcat Goldthwait to a lip-sync battle, a lingual melee I’d no doubt lose on a unanimous points decision. I’m not sure whether I’m coming or going right now although neither appear on the cards and there’s only so many “oohs” and “aahs” one man can endure before taking matters into his own recently moisturized palm. Actually, table that thought for the time being, as I do believe that’s my pager buzzing and I’d better get this in case mother’s managed to lock herself in the pantry again.
MESSAGE FOR DESK SGT. NICK McGOVERN FROM CHIEF:
YOU SHOOT THOSE HOOKERS YET? 🔫
How do I turn this blasted thing off? Goddammit, foiled again, and I guess it would make it about the time to accept that skull shrapnel. But what is this? It would appear that I’ve been offered a lifeline as neither Cherry or Layla have the faintest interest in what I’m doing and my latest rookie error looks set to go unpunished after all. Boy that was close, something tells me these two would have shot first and asked my stone cold cadaver questions later after finishing getting each other off. I’m not ordinarily one to pay any mind to signs from a higher power but that close shave may just have made a believer out of me. The very moment I get out of here I’m going to invest in a pocket bible as I’m only three chapters from the end of The Satanic Verses and could do with something light to read after all that doom and gloom. Right now however, I shall count myself decidedly lucky and chalk this one down to small mercy.
I’d swear blind that someone has tampered with the thermostat you know as I just caught a whiff of my own pungent armpits and they weren’t due to stink until next Tuesday as I only showed them the flannel yesterday. It’s all down to those hoes as things are really hotting up on that four-poster bed and I reckon they’re about to engage in a captivating round of Where’s Willy. I haven’t witnessed anything this obscene since that one Christmas party when I quaffed too much eggnog and wound up in the stationary cupboard with an Alsatian and two jars of peanut butter. How could I even contemplate shooting these hookers when Mr. & Mrs. Bunny did such a sketchy job of teaching me sex ed back in school? Granted, I knew precisely how babies were made, but it wasn’t until years later that I finally learned what squirting entailed and the whole sorry experience damn near blinded me. Judging by the fact that both now look decidedly peaky, I’d say that solves the whole blood flow mystery, and this should make it the all-important final strait.
Yet still I feel like I should be participating in some way. I just feel so helpless sat here while Cherry and Layla battle it out for supremacy. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if I offered my services as two just seems like such a dreadfully lonely number. I mean, think about it. Were their two little pigs, two billy goats gruff, two stooges, two french hens, two blind mice, two little kittens that lost their mittens, two Powerpuff Girls, two Brontë sisters, or two Hanson brothers? How much less thrilling would Jaws 3 have been in 2D? And do you think Tom Selleck and Ted Danson could have figured out how to change a diaper if Steve Guttenberg had cried off with explosive diarrhea? The more the merrier seems to hold some weight here and, while my sexual repertoire only includes missionary and the Apple Pie stance, I’ve had plenty of experience of both, although admittedly more of the latter. I can but throw it out there and, should they decline my invitation, then at least I won’t beat myself up for the rest of my life over what if. Nick McGovern hasn’t got the time for what ifs. I’m a red-blooded male with a lethal goddamn weapon in my holster, and a poster of Dolph Lundgren pinned up in my man cave. Or is that Brigitte Nielsen? That’s irrelevant, I’m a man darn toot it or, at least, until I’ve saved up enough for the operation. Speaking of which, perhaps Cherry and Layla could swing me a discount.
“Excuse me ladies…ladies…guys?”
“What it is you insignificant little rodent felcher?”
I don’t know whether to be deeply offended at being called a rodent felcher or soundly bowled over by the fact that they just synchronized their insult.
“You got room for one more?”
The court appears to have adjourned momentarily although they are both clearly giving my indecent proposal some thought so that’s promising.
“What do you reckon Chez?”
“Dunno Lay-Lay. He looks a bit scrawny to me. What’s he actually going to bring to the table?”
“Precious little I’m sure but look at his sad puppy dog eyes”
“I know right. So deeply pathetic. Tragic even”
“Yeah tragic, that’s it”
“I’ve seen less pitiful Jehovah’s witnesses”
“And less annoying”
“He is rather annoying isn’t he? One of those faces you cannot help but wanna punch”
“We could you know”
“Nah. It’d be too much like punting a chihuahua in Doc Martens”
“Well what else are we going to do with him? He’s starting to depress me”
“Me too. And you’re sure punching is out? I’ve got a clean shot of his chin from here”
“I’ve got a better idea. Let’s grant his dirty little schoolboy fantasy and see if he can keep up”
“With us? Have you seen the crotch of his pants? I’ve seen more swelling in a bee sting”
“Perhaps he’s just tucked it under. Listen, the last time I checked it was my name above the door of this place so I say we give him a run-out”
“You’re the boss Layla”
“I am aren’t I? Well that’s it decided then. Mike Smith, this is your lucky day”
I’m not entirely convinced that the past 24 hours would constitute as charmed but the current turn of events is certainly a step in the right direction. Police work can take a back seat for the next six-and-a-half minutes as I’ve got two worlds to rock and cannot wait to find out how this fresh dynamic plays out. I mean, unless they’ve got way too much vaginal surplus going on down there, then both are more Tim than Tina and have you ever heard the term “3 Tims a treat”? Perhaps it hasn’t reached your zip code just yet but I hear it’s spreading like Bird flu and is far less likely to result in incubation. These dumb broads even seem sold on the whole Mike Smith deception and are about to play right into my hands. I’m a little concerned about the excessive blood loss if I’m honest as that ninth surrendered pint really takes it out of you but something tells me there’ll be no shortage of fluids spurting in a few moments and I reckon I can fling myself directly onto the mattress from here with a dash of forward momentum. It may not be the most dignified entrance but, from what I hear, dignity has no place in the bedroom, at least that’s what my wife Meryl tells me when she busts out the cat ‘o’ nine tails.
I made it. Now to bone me some live ones. They must think me some kind of sexual whippet right now as this kind of battle-hardened swagger takes months of intensive training to perfect, years even. Never have I been so primed for active duty, so chomping at the bit to get down to beeswax, so dead set on showing off my special purpose. I’m so prepared for skirmish that I even came in my pants already, although I may refrain from sharing that particular tidbit. Indeed, I would imagine that they’re so dumbfounded by my availability that they need a few seconds to regroup. Hot damn I’m ready. Fuck it, let’s celebrate this moment with a suitably anthemic battle song shall we?
Maybe if we all sing along, we can get Republica to come out of retirement. What do you mean they never retired? And what about Milli Vanilli? Next you’re going to tell me that Rob Van Winkle isn’t dead. Really? When did I get so frightfully out of touch with the kids? I’d swear blind I was down with the lovable little rascals; my ice cream van did a roaring trade this summer. Well until I ran out of cider lollies that is. Oh look, it appears that Layla has something she wishes to get off her chest. You will do love as soon as I restock the ‘lil guys.
“You’re not very ready are you?”
“Whatever gave you that idea? Do your ears need syringing?”
“This game plays out better minus the clothes. You’re fully dressed Mike”
“So I am”
“I know. Do a sexy strip for us. That’d be a decent start”
“Not sure you can handle that. You see, the sight of me disrobing flirtatiously has been known to provoke temporary blindness such is its hypnotic allure”
“We’ll take our chances”
“I bet you will. So are you ready for this amount of sexiness?”
“Thrill us Mike”
“Oh I will. It just so happens that Thrill is my middle name”
I do hope that didn’t blow my cover. Everybody knows that Mike Smiths don’t have middle names and I just pray they haven’t cottoned onto my Freudian slip as that could prove cataclysmic. Moreover, for all my swashbuckling swagger, I’m actually a tad daunted by the prospect of removing my togs in front of an audience. It’s my miniscule nipples you see, I’ve seen facial moles more voluminous, and may be the only guy alive who wears a lamb wool sweater on a private beach.
I have to give off the aura of a stallion here, gyrate my sweet hips, make my pectorals dance of their own accord, make each of my eyebrows move independently, activate the come to bed eyes beneath them, lick my lips suggestively, growl like an untamed predator, pout like Mick Jagger and also borrow his moves, flick my hair like I’m totally “worth it”, grab my crotch like MJ, thrown in half a dozen hee hees and three shamones, dribble saliva down my own sternum, look generally “the balls”, and all while concealing the fact that I jizzed in my smalls five minutes ago and they’re now beginning to solidify. Fuck it, I was in for that penny the moment I stepped foot in this den of iniquity and that shit just matured to a pound. How’s that for interest bitches?
“Okay ladies, gents, or whatever. Here comes ‘dat boom and potential myopia”
“Go Mike go!”
“Yeah give it to us Mike Smith”
“That’s right, you say my name”
“Mike Smith. Mike Smith”
“What’s Mike Smith gonna do to you?”
“Make us blind. Ravage us from all conceivable angles. Become our number one”
“In with that bullet”
“Shoot it Mike Smith. Shoot it all over our filthy little faces”
“I’m fixing to. You know what else I’m fixing to do?”
“What Mike Smith? What are you fixing to do to us?”
“I’m fixing to fuck ya. That’s right, I’m gonna fuck ya”
“With what Mike Smith?”
“With my dick”
“With your dick?”
“With my diuck!”
“And where are you gonna put it Mike Smith?”
“All up where Mike Smith?”
“In yo vadge…erm…metaphorically of course”
“Do it Mike Smith. Dance for us. Show us those rippling biceps and washboard abs”
“You asked for it”
First things first, don’t you just hate shirt buttons? They’re like a string of miniature bra straps sent to torment us and it’s no easy feat making bitter struggle arousing. Fuck this for threading a needle after shock treatment, I’m tearing this shit open and making it sexy. Meryl’s going to throttle me when I get home. One torn open Yves Saint Laurent and a pair of Calvin Klein jockeys so stiff that you could keep a weeble afloat on them. That’s Nick McGovern’s problem as Mike Smith has clothes to rip off and she-males to thoroughly disappoint.
“One question before you go any further”
“When were you gonna tell us Nick?”
“Nick? I see no Nick here”
“That’s funny. Then why does your chest tattoo read DESK SGT. NICK McGOVERN”
“It’s…erm…better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all”
“So Nick’s your boyfriend then?”
“Yes that’s it. Me and Nick, we’re inseparable”
“Oh I see. And that’s why he lent you his pager right?”
Dagnabbit. I’m positive I pressed accept. Foiled by the very man who tasked me with “shooting those hookers” and that one Christmas party where I smoked too much crack and let Maude from Human Resources loose on the tattoo needle. Why me lord? You have over seven billion children to punish so what makes me so moreish a prospect? And it was all going so darn well. In three years, I planned to release my own fitness DVD and range of nutritious protein shakes called Panther Fat. Had it all worked it out to the tee. Cruel irony cakes with an even crueler twist of lemon-scented fate and a dusting of cruelest ever sprinkles. That’s just fucking harsh man.Take it away Bananarama. There are three of them too you now. Just saying.
“Bend over Nick as I’ve got this thing I’ve been simply dying to try out for some time now”
“A smidgen of eleventh hour mercy?”
“Not quite. Firing a close range armor-piercing bullet into a man’s asshole at the correct angle to take his left eye out upon exit. Up for that?”
“Rain check do?”
Well okey dokey then. I do believe this makes it around about that time for a quick and most probably final status check. Two pissed off hookers, one at ten o’clock and one at two, both of whom are packing heat I might add, one stashed firearm in my right sock, two split seconds to reach for it, one dose of the luck of the Irish, one ineffectual partner, two hundred dollars left in my daughter Minnie’s college fund, one set of divorce papers waiting for me at home, two severed heel tendons, one pair of tiny nipples, two involuntary farts brewing, one pair of jockeys soiled in two different ways, two throbbing testicles frantically attempting to refuel to no avail, and absolutely nothing left to lose. You’re damn right it’s wabbit season.
That could have gone far worse actually. Cherry has now been popped quite literally and I see no real way back from having your skull shattered like Bill Cosby’s hopes of a one-off Thanksgiving special. Of course, that still leaves the madame of this sinful palace, Layla, and her aim ain’t too shabby either. Quick question, how long after the act can a surgeon still sew an ear back on? No not just the lobe, the whole ear. It was a clear break if that helps. And do I qualify for a discount if they throw in some new ankles too? When in Rome right? Hell, may as well toss in some new nipples while they’re at it. Never mind that, I’m about to be reintroduced to my old friend agonizing pain and no longer have remaining currency in my chamber to bargain with. Here come those curtains. I do hope they’re paisley.
But what’s this? Partner! I wouldn’t have believed my own eyes had it not been for the fact that they just slipped me ten bucks on the sly and whispered “mom’s the word” in my one remaining ear. What a valiant act, hurling yourself in front of the incoming bullet and taking it straight to the heart for little ole me. I’m actually rather touched, relieved, and utterly bamboozled by your courageous action and ever so grateful that it has bought me the time to lunge at Layla and redirect the next shot straight to her own meat and two vegetables, thus fulfilling the chief’s brief and emerging the hero right at last knockings. It’s like all my Christmases rolled into one – seven spent hookers, too many lucky stars to realistically keep track of, and only one shot off ear to locate. I owe this all to you dear friend, old buddy, old pal. Always did have a soft spot for you and never doubted your validity for a second. If I ever have a second child then I’m naming it…hold up…what did you say your name was again? Sorry you’ll have to speak up. Or you could continue choking on your own bile, you’re the boss. Actually I’m the boss but you’re second in command and that’s nothing to be sniffed at. Just give me a holler when you’re done with those labored breaths and we’ll see about getting you patched up good as new. Buddy? Pal?
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Richard Charles Stevens
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Grueheads Films 2017