The Zanzibar Club Hospitality

The ride in the Escalade was like sitting on a cloud, tequila in hand, the rowdy mutts never spilled a drop. The rugged tarmac of State Road 160 didn’t cause a flinch, and Hopscotch was a cordial and silent pilot, other than a couple pointers.

“Let the girls pick you. You’ll have a better night that way. You decide you want the princess, you might get the witch; ya feel me?” Then the more delicate advice for when in the throes of passion, “Don’t even think about gettin’ aggressive. There’s big-time trouble if ya do. They got muscle who’s only job is to bust heads. And they don’t go easy on ya. Ya feel me?” And in his effort to hammer this one home, “It’s for your own good, man. Grab hair, yea, okay, you won’t make them a fan, man; but that’s okay unless the lady tells you it ain’t. And that’s why you want the girl to pick you; they get more liberal that way. Not stupid. I drove back plenty of guys with broken noses. And not a single police report. They brought themselves that trouble. Ya feel me?” And lastly, a suggestion designed to rein the beast right out of the men, “Best thing is, always be a gentleman. If the girl wants the extra fun, you’re good. If she wants to put you in handcuffs, it’s a great fucking sign!...” he began cackling, “Ya feel me? Means she wants to get jiggy, ya know? No tellin’ where that party takes you, brother. Ya feel me?”

That was it. The balance of the drive was a great flow from Pandora, a thread of good rock n roll and all of it 90’s to early 2000’s, right in the wheelhouse of the veterans getting lubed up with too much tequila. The glass closed on the driver, the boys were falling over, red-faced and laughing, without a fucking care in the world, for they were breaking a cherry with Lazlo, and Marky Mark was sowing him some new oats, further confirming his distance from a shit marriage. This was one of those “when in Vegas…” things, they were both assured. Donnie was dipping into the familiar well, and as always, kept a more lucid mind to what is real in the world… no matter his drunkenness. He had been around. And while he loved witnessing his two most pious of friends, laughing their guts out, willing to live before they died some dried-up, forlorn life of moral aptitude, he would watch over them. Because he knew Life better than his two mates.

The glass came down from Hopscotch, the music quieted.

“There she be! You boys are about 30 minutes from heaven.”

Hopscotch pulled up to the Porte cochere, lined with regal columns that could have come from ancient Rome, Byzantium or Zanzibar. It was the only architectural feature that bothered to set a tone. The edifice behind the faux-ancient colonnade was a puffed-up ranch style home with virtually no outstanding features but a blurring, deep rose color. Not pink, but electroshock luminescence, that hoped to inspire the patron’s libido – or subdue their critical eye.

But these wanton vets didn’t reflect long on either architecture or the horrid color schemes as four lovely women were lined up to greet the newest arrivals, each bestowing a gift bag full of breath mints, a small ‘rulebook’ and a box of condoms, “One size fits all”, and none of the ex-soldiers bothered debating it.

The randy bunch were still laughing on their tequila high, so anymore of anything was sure to be fun, even a rulebook.

As the vets were being escorted in, nothing but stars in the sky and lurid neon marquis declaring Man-joy could be purchased there, what was most notable to Donnie… it was very isolated. All alone.

************************

The collection of ladies lined up in the viewing room. 11 of them dressed in anything from chic “Studio 51” dance attire to slave girls of Pompeii – or Zanzibar, they guessed. Not one of the outfits was overly generous in covering the parts that were the honey to the client. Mark was red-faced for his embarrassment, looking as innocent as he did dizzy. Lazlo, Donnie was surprised, had his game face on, with a confident smile. He looked like he belonged when Donnie knew he didn’t. This was selection time… and Donnie wasn’t about to buy into the bullshit Hopscotch dumped on them… No way, any of the girls would be liberal in their permission. Donnie had been in enough houses of ill repute to know better. So, he was making his own choice – and maybe multiple choices. But he would guide his mates well in the same way.

“Don’t be shy Marky Mark. You want the night of your life.”

Laz wanted to remind him, “But remember what Hopscotch said?”

“Laz, you can go with that if you want, but I don’t recommend it. For any number of reasons.”

The girls were hearing all of it, responding to none of it.

Just then a heavy-set woman came in, wearing a bustier she had no business trying to fit into. It was an overwhelming victory for big mammary glands and not enough spinach and tofu.

“Welcome to The Zanzibar Club gentlemen. It’s our pleasure to entertain you. More so, to take care of you. And we all know what that means.” Marky was rubbing his hands together, elbowing Lazlo, a couple of middle-school kids about to get their first kiss… Donnie was chuckling, and happy for the guys breaking free of that guilt.

“First, the rules, and you will find them in the little rulebook in your welcome gift, along with the condoms and the breath mints. While I can vouch for my ladies, they are tested weekly, and we keep a clean house, in all respects, so the ladies are not the problem. We encourage you to use the breath mints, and we absolutely require you to shower up and wear the raincoats.”

At this, Marky and Lazlo looked at each other, then both simultaneously to Donnie. He was laughing for the neophytes he palled around with… mid-forties and still naïve as babes in the wood. He just grabbed his crotch and shook it. It was all they needed to know.

The hostess went on, “No mouth kissing, unless your girl desires. She will tell you or show you. No anal. Period. The girls are lovers, not your abuse-fantasy. Enough on that. If you want Bondage, S and M, we have five girls who enjoy it.”

Donnie spoke up, “None of that stuff, Madame,” he knew she had to be the head honcho, she had Director written all over her, “We’re good people, just looking for love.”

The Madame stopped, looked at Donnie, “Great. That’s good. Makes for long fun and no bad mistakes. You are?”

“I’m Donnie. Don Juan to your ladies.” He winked at the assembly of beautiful girls, still standing in silence.

“Marvelous. Then you’ll be giving a girl or two some schooling.” She finished in a brutally robust laugh, one that might have otherwise come from a boozy chain-smoker who sits at the end of a bar seven nights a week. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Yankovich.”

That was interesting… she knew him by name… that’s preparedness. Like he had never experienced before.

“So, boys, you came to have fun, not listen to the bossy lady lecture. Okay girls, make your introductions.”

What followed was each girl stepped forward and gave their stage names, and their sales pitch for companionship: Buttercup, Lollipop, Laura Lay, Susie 2-cents “Cause I got no sense when it comes to love”, which immediately perked Donnie’s interest. Nothing better than careening libido, find the ones that love to fuck and then fuck like you love them. His pals didn’t react to that advice like they should have.

Donnie stood up, “Susie 2-cents. Will you be my date?” She stopped, looked tentatively at the Madame.. an odd silence, then the Madame chimed in.

“Let’s wait to get through all the girls. We want each to get their opportunity, and you, the client to be sure.”

“Thank you, Madame, but I’m already sure.” Donnie just smiled, then he turned to his mates. “Pick your girls, boys, and let’s get the party started.”

Just then two of the girls stepped forward and hurriedly went to Mark and Lazlo, reaching for their hands. “I got the little one…” one grabbed onto Mark’s forearm like a mastiff to a bone. Mark wasn’t displeased, but still looking at Donnie, who apparently was not about to lecture his buddies. Donnie just said, “It’s your night, Mark. Your choice.”

He really didn’t have to think long, as her legs were long and lean, in a bit of almost-there lingerie, his greatest weakness in all the feminine world. “What’s your name, honey?”

“Sugar.” Mark started giggling, how perfect could that have been?

“My favorite food!” He just kept giggling. Donnie was rolling his eyes, for the child this 46-year-old man could be, and for his disregarding Donnie’s advice.

Lazlo did the same, recalling Hopscotch’s recommendation and not their friend’s. He got a girl named Silkie, and he went to that lame-ass place of trying to impress a pro. “I love silk. Maybe the softest thing on the Earth.” Nothing of poetry and everything of tequila and a hard-on.

“You guys…” Lance Corporal Don Juan was left shaking his head, then for the fun of it, putting the selection process to bed, “And you. I’ll have you join me and Susie.” The woman was bound up in some new-age bikini that exposed all of the traditional hiding spots, as if by its accidentally coming to pieces. “What’s your name?”

The girl put her hand to her chest in a “who me?” manner, softly responding, “Margot”, then silence, and she looked to the Madame… odd, Donnie thought. Why the hesitation… the sense of the mandated bullshit was bugging him. He turned to the Madame.

“Hey, listen. This is confusing. My mates, okay, maybe they want some direction, ‘cause their greenies, but I know what I want. Why is this so fucking difficult for everyone? My dollah, right?” He was getting a little animated, and not in a funny way.

“Easy, Donnie, you can get who you want.” Even Lazlo wasn’t sure as he said this, he even looked at the director of this exhibition. It was weird, uncomfortable.

“No, Laz, I’m fine. I just want to be clear. I am not being told who I take to bed. If the girls had other appointments, they wouldn’t be in the line-up.” He looked back to the Madame, in a challenging way. “You got any more to offer besides our fun?”

She smiled broadly and nodded in deferment, “Yessir, by all means, your dollah!” in the very same facetious manner, “Your fun and entertainment is all we are about here, Mr. Yankovich.”

Donnie felt a visceral tug to then ask how or why she already had this crisp awareness of who he was… but on second thought, decided this could sort of squirrel-up his buddies’ night. That part was a non-starter. So, he rolled with it.

“Great!” The Lance Corporal looked at his friends, “Let’s play a little pool and have a couple drinks with the girls before we get frisky, what d’ya say?”

***********************

The girls were being appropriately attentive, yet Mark and Lazlo were still acting like this was a real date, and impressing the girls with their debonair and decency was their attempt at getting to first base. Donnie was having as much fun watching the two act as gentlemen at a cotillion, still dreaming and conning how they would get into those zippers and ties and the lush life that awaited the neophytes. And all they had to do was reach out!

Donnie just gorged on carnal desire as lead-by-example. Lot of tongues being shared, none mouth to mouth, none yet so flagrant to call it sex, but it was getting close. He would still peek up at his mates, while coming up for air, seeing Lazlo handing his girl her drink, still not having touched a bare patch of skin but for her elbow as he gently led her to her next shot on the billiard table.

Finally, it was Sugar who dove into the chilly bath that was PFC Mark Denton. He was handing her her drink and she swept it quickly onto the table and enveloped him in an embrace, with loose parts of her lingerie growing looser.

“Atta Mark! Now you’re talking!” At that, Lazlo looked up, as if he were losing a race, one that had been agreed by default they would come in tied and equal and maybe unfulfilled. But he also chimed in for his buddy. “Get your sugar, Private!” He broke into a mischievous smile as the weight of all the testosterone had built up like a rockslide being held up by one… last… pebble. And it broke free.

Lazlo stood from his stool, put his glass down and moved to Silkie and took the pool cue from her, set it on the table, then wrapped her in his arms with an open mouth to her neck. Certainly she would gasp in rapture, and the middle schooler began to give her a hickey.

It was funny enough to draw laughter, but Donnie would not, knowing these guys were walking through a minefield without the illicit aim to just go there. It was almost sweet. But they weren’t here for “sweet” they were here for sweat.

“You jarheads! Take that nasty shit to your rooms!” Donnie started laughing, as Laz and Mark cracked up, finally feeling their oats. But Donnie noticed Silkie had turned a dark eye to the ceiling… decidedly uncommitted, maybe even contemptuous. That girl didn’t want to be here. He hoped the shagging might change her attitude for Lazlo’s sake. But that might be a problem.

PFC Mark Denton…

Mark walked the hall with confidence, still somehow feeling he had earned this dance. It was that curious validation that every man seems to reach for, even in the business of sex for money. Only the vets of pay-for affairs finally leave that juvenile fantasy behind. But as they walked, Sugar had a handful of PFC Denton’s ass, and that was enough to say “love” to Mark.

They reached the suite, and there was a tall, dark figure at the door, made taller by Mark’s own 5’-8” stature. The arms were crossed, clearly intending to show muscle and cold discipline. The little marine was caught off guard.

“What’s this?”

“Oh, it’s protocol here at The Zanzibar.” Sugar offered in gentle tones, easy comfort in such a voice and manner and a tiny lingerie. “We want the customer to have a full experience, so we insist he leaves his phone and any technology he has on him…” then coyly, “… We want no distractions, sweetie. Trust me, it’s the way that you would want it.”

Just in that solicitous voice of promise, Mark would have given his name, rank, serial number, cell phone, bank codes, you name it… he might have been drooling at this juncture his mind was so inside that door, and between her legs.

“Oh, okay.” Looking up at the security, “What do I call you, security guard? A name? I prefer a name. We’re all friends and all.”

The heavy smiled and reached to shake his hand, “Call me Tobias. Pleased to meet you. Pardon while I pat you down and take the distractions.” Interesting name for those critical devices they had become… Mark reflected on this as he handed over his hotel key and his cellphone. “It’s amazing how important those damn things have become. When we did our tour in Fallujah, we only had use of these ridiculous phones the size of a phonebooth, like field radios, almost.” He was chuckling, Tobias wasn’t. “It’s amazing how important those damn cellphones have become.”

“Absolutely. Times keep changing, Mr. Denton.” Tobias was satisfied he had relieved the littlest marine of all his distractions, and offered, “Now, you wanna keep talkin’ with me, or you wanna be talkin’ with Sugar?” He was in a half-chuckle fully intending to end this interruption of the man’s fantasy.

Mark was laughing, patting the large man on the arm, “Thanks Tobias. I got ya. And no offense, I’m sure you’re a very interesting man, but you know…” he threw a head shake over his shoulder in finish.

“I’m not offended, Mr. Denton. Have a lovely evening.”

With that Mark entered the Jungle Room, and gasped at the leopard that sat poised to attack at the foot of the bed, then began laughing. “That shit looked real” was the last thing Lawrence heard as he closed and locked the door.

PFC Lazlo Pentavo…

“My cellphone? Why?”

Gregory was #2 in security, and he was at post at the Polynesian Suite. It really looked nothing like Polynesia, in that it was only wallpaper with a bamboo pattern and immensely floral patterns in bedding and pillows, a couple stuffed monkeys on peculiar perches. So much for artistry. But Gregory was explaining their protocol for the “benefit of our clients.”

“I’m pretty sure I won’t be distracted by my phone. You saw Silkie, right?” Laz was smiling with the joy of a carnal fortune teller, for what he knew was going down in minutes.

“Well, yessir, I seen Silkie. Every day. And trust me, you will be glad I did this for you. Because that right there?” he was pointing at the girl of Lazlo’s very near dreams. “That’s championship rockin’. And you don’t want anything to come a knockin’!”

Laz agreed, mumbling in his defense, “Well, okay, but I’m not about to be distracted from Silkie…” None of the waning complaint meant a thing to Gregory. “Anything else?”

“Just a pat down, Mr. Pentavo. Just making sure we have protection for the girls.”

Laz understood this measure and just raised his hands and spun, with the only prominence his half-erect penis… he was glad to see Gregory skipped that part of the process.

“You’re good, Mr. Pentavo.”

“Well, that’s up to Silkie, but I promise I’ll give it my best.”

Both men were chuckling good as Gregory closed the suite’s door and locked it.

Lance Corporal Donald Yankovich…

“The hell you are!”

“It’s protocol Mr. Yankovich.”

“Well, yank on this Lenny.” His hand was covering his crotch, “I’m not giving you my phone.”

“I prefer, Leonard, sir.”

“Well, good, Leonard, I prefer to keep my phone.” Donnie stood toe to toe, dodging nothing of this exchange. The security guard was chiseled and 20 years the junior, but Donnie had knowledge, and most of the time that was better than muscle. Especially if you’re fast enough. Lance Corporal Yankovich was still that.

The girls were tentative, after having left the billiard room behind it had only grown. There seemed to be an awkwardness about them, like they were both new girls to the industry, but they were passionate zealots when in the pre-coitus play while his mates played pool. And now at the Rome Suite, they were hanging just inside the suite hoping some solution would be found.

“It’ll be fine, Mr. Yankovich.” He turned to Susie 2 Cents, “You can call me Donnie, sweetheart. Both of you. This guy, calls me Mr. Yankovich.” And he looked right back in the security man’s grill.

“There’s no need for this shit…” the guard caught himself, can’t let agitation show. “Sorry, there’s no need for your anger. We try and make this a complete and fulfilling evening, Mr. Yankovich. Less distractions…” He was cut off.

“I like distractions. I pay for distractions. If my phone interests me, that’s my issue. And that means I keep my phone.”

“Sir, you don’t need to be like this…” at that the Madame came down to help settle the scrum.

“Mr. Yankovich, really, Leonard is only executing Zanzibar’s policy. And it is aimed at the client’s pleasure, I assure you.”

“You people keep saying that! I don’t need your help – your babysitting. If your girls can’t be fucking interesting enough to keep me engaged in various forms of forn-i-cation, then I’m just gonna have me a Yelp! review from hell.”

“We certainly aim to please, and we’re confident it will be far better for you…” Donnie cut her off.

“Listen… what’s your name, Madame, I hate calling you Madame when you sure as hell ain’t behaving like one.” The hostess flushed, actually snorted a little, a flash of anger.

“Mr. Yankovich, I own this establishment. My name is Big Sally, or Big Gal Sal. I built this business by knowing how to satisfy a man, and your resistance to those…” Don once again interrupted her.

“No, no, no, Big Sally. I’m not talking any-fucking-more about this shit. You understand?” Then he turned the notch on pissed-off, “In fact, I’m getting pretty fucking pissed that you have this mandate shit going on at all. The girls pick the customers? We got to leave our phones, devices, keys and shit?”

“For the safety of my girls, Mr. Yankovich.”

“Bullshit, Sally. I am dropping close to $10,000 dollars for this night with my friends…”

“And your friends have fully cooperated.”

“Well, I’ll have a fucking talk with them, but I am living my life, not theirs. Got it? And anymore bullshit, you guys telling me how I pick em? Maybe how I fuck em? I promise I will only leave your girls in a happier state, all smiles when we go home to Vegas. But you ain’t giving me no more rules. Capito? Any more of your fucking rules and I pack my mates up and walk. I’ll fucking call an Uber, and the cops.”

It was now much farther than Big Sal had ever guessed. He had his phone and a temper… she decided to close the deal, she would have to acquiesce.

“Fine, Don. Fine. Have a nice fucking time. Leonard, let him go.”

“I didn’t do my pat down.”

Big Sal glared at Donnie Yankovich, simply because she lost an argument, and barked. “Never mind. His asshole is a vacuum, and that’s all that’s left of him. You can tell by the way he treats people.”

“Hey, wow! Ain’t that interesting? Imagine, a customer gets his way. And it’s not like I’m hurting a flea.” Donnie smiled back at Big Sal, knowing the schism in her life was burning acid, and it was only because a patron insisted on not cooperating with the fucking senseless rules.

Big Gal Sal just turned and marched away, announcing, “Leonard, pay close attention. Don’t let him hurt any girls.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Donnie was just chuckling, “Hurt the girls. Great! I be tickling the girls!”

Leonard closed the door to the Roman Suite. And locked it.

PFC Mark Denton…

Mark remembered what Hopscotch said about the girl offering handcuffs… so he said yes, his mind spinning in carnal glee… he was going someplace a married man of 14 years had never even given him a sniff of in his life.

Sugar had secured his hands behind his back and around the bedpost as he stood at the foot of the four-poster readying for what he assumed was a blowjob. He watched as she danced around the stripper-pole, loosening the slim vines that kept the lingerie in place. Mark was clearly in an early stage of heaven, with nothing to prevent him from drilling concrete with his pecker.

Sugar left the pole, ready to fellate the veteran, at least give him the lustful assumption that was what was going to happen. As she caressed his chest, and slid down his belly, in that long-practiced method of arousing every swinging, sad-sack dick that ever came before this jackass, the dipshit was sighing in early release.

“Close your eyes, lover, and I will take you the rest of the way.”

Mark was looking down at her, “I’d rather watch. I never had…” he gulped in unmanaged functions, “…never had anything like this before…”

“Sweetheart, this ain’t our last act! You are gonna have every chance at any wish you ever had, baby. So close your eyes and let me take you there.”

Mark grinned and lifted his head, eyes closed, and went into some rhythmic mantra of sighs and soft groans as Sugar began to stroke him.

What Mark could not know was that the security guard named Tobias, and the lead security guard named Leonard, whom Mark had not had the pleasure of meeting nor debating, entered the room through a panel that opened up into the closet. They then slid the closet door and moved with speed.

Tobias threw a hood over the sexually engaged fool’s head, it was lined in plastic, and the outer hood was a tough fabric. And the especially unique thing about this hood was it had a draw string of leather around its opening. The assailants had him in complete vulnerable submission. Tobias drew the leather tight, beginning to choke out any scream, and Leonard swung high and downward with a steel mallet, crunching against PFC Denton’s skull, causing a retched jerk and a stuttering gurgle of defiance that was already failing. A second full arc and the veteran was quiet.

Tobias would finish the work simply by pulling the drawstrings made of leather, and tied the knot off, to be sure that any possible life that might have been left in the victim would be expunged in his silent suffocation. And that clever invention, the plastic interior, with the drawstring would prove impervious to any blood evidence ever making the floor or walls. A time-tested success for the occasional police inquiries about lost tourists.

Leonard spoke through a communication device on his collar, the most official example of “security” the killer had ever worn. “Done with Sugar’s man.”

PFC Lazlo Pentavo…

Laz had debated it, simply because Donnie riled at the notion. It seemed an idiot thing to do, but… Hopscotch has got to know better than Donnie… He had to. So Lazlo acquiesced.

He stood, completely naked, with his hands cuffed behind his back and around the post of the bed. Silkie had taken his clothes and stowed them in the dresser, which Laz thought was kind of sweet, like playing house… not knowing there was a practical reason for it, linked to something of forensics… and the steam in the Latin’s blood was near to knock the top off the teakettle.

Silkie was a little hesitant, her voice not that tranquil comfort she had offered at the start, now she was challenged in her words or her vocal chords. But she persisted… because it meant her life too.

“I’m about to spin your world, Lazlo. I need you to close your eyes and let a girl do her work.”

Hell, Laz was so far gone, dew was on the lily, he figured they could probably do this all night long, especially since Laz had taken the little blue helper. It wasn’t avarice that motivated him, it was his promise to experience the best that world had to offer, because as he justified this, he realized he would never do it again. It just wasn’t him, after all. He just never realized how that ceasing would come about.

Leonard had walked a clandestine corridor, a secretive access to each room; and at each suite, there was a camera trained on the sexual Olympics that might be played out through the two-way mirror. This hallway was their magical appearance, and the videos the best way to extort from the high and mighty, if a statesmen or political figure or a celebrity ever bought a piece of heaven from Big Gal Sal and the Zanzibar Club. The movies were the assurance of large amounts of cash; the secretive access the stealthy silencing of a victim. It was a good system.

But as things turned out, not enough of the high profile patrons bothered with this remote little joint. So, the new invention was extracting all the patron’s information, employing digital wizards then to hack into the patron’s sources of wealth, whether small or large, and rob them blind. But the patrons would not be blind from naivete, but from a vicious death, and there was plenty of open desert that would keep them lost forever.

Most of the resources gleaned from the losers were fenced on the dark web, and Big Sal had one of the best in Turkey. Gorko. In fact, Gorko was at work right then, cracking the asshole Yankovich’s riches while the men were being killed. It was efficient beauty. Brutal as it was.

Gregory and Leonard followed the same ritual with Lazlo. Silkie had convinced him to wear a ball-gag, and it was good she had because this Latin had one tough skull. Leonard had to crack him four times to finally subdue him. Gregory, aka Bloodhound, finished the chords tightening around Lazlo’s neck. The killers never gave it a thought, and they had not an ounce of sympathy, because this was how they lived the good life. They had as much lush life and cash as most millionaires – so Big Gal Sal kept assuring them. And it was good enough to satisfy even if it weren’t gospel truth.

But the girls never handled it quite as easily. Despite Big Sally having five standouts who wanted the big money that these episodes would win them, none of them stayed around for the dirty work. Each time, the girls would run to the bathroom… and most often cry. But it was getting easier for some. They were all spending the cash.

Those girls who would not play this game were forever imprisoned to the routine Johns and the more modest money, being remote as they were; but more so because if they ever breathed a word of what they knew… they would know what Ginny had suffered. And they were reminded weekly when they got their shots and check-ups. In fact, it was Big Sal’s sermon even before the doctor did his work. And she shared the examples of some of the girls that “just disappeared.”

When immersed in a hell of poor fortune or bad decisions, it only got worse when you thought about it. And that’s where the drugs and the booze came in handy.

It was a sweet business, Big Sal ran. Made only sweeter by the scheme. And in the last four years, and maybe 16 victims, not one investigation came back to them with any sincerity. After all, deserts are big and lethal places, and Las Vegas is no less so. Disappearing in this market was standard stuff. It’s how Big Gal Sal made her high living.

Lance Corporal Donald Yankovich…

Margot was doing her best to play through the acts of affection, even though she knew what she knew. She hated that she had been accidentally drawn in by the obnoxious john. And her conscience would pester her, as it wasn’t the john that caused her dilemma, it was the scheme. Yet there was nowhere for her to go; she got dragged in by the client, and she wanted out. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She fondled his package through his boxers, while twiddling at his earlobe, distant and perfunctory. Juvenile shit, Donnie knew. None of this felt… normal. Fucking whores at a chicken ranch may be abnormal, but in Donnie’s storied life of such things, this place was not at all fucking normal.

“Margot… maybe you need to loosen up on the dance pole.” He wasn’t dismissing her, he was trying to figure out just what the fuck was going on around this joint. She relented, swiftly, without attempting eye contact.

Susie 2-cents was twirling a pair of handcuffs around her index finger, her hip jutting out in invitation to “the man of her dreams”, enticing and inciting him with her brazen nakedness. “Let’s play, handsome. You want I swarm your world with mad love? I’ll suck your joint until it’s a raisin.” She held the cuffs out. Donnie just smirked.

“Fat chance, Susie No Sense. I play with my hands, so that shit ain’t happening. But you can come over here and put that tongue to good use.” He spread his legs, an insult in any other sector of human engagement… except for that of selling sex.

“Don’t you want Susie and Margot to slurp up on you like Nirvana’s at the door? You don’t have to do anything but gasp and cum. I’ll let you blow your load all over my face, sweetie.” Too hard a sell, Donnie was thinking, an attractive idea to a thug maybe.

“I hate Nirvana. Pampered fool who shoots his brains out, becomes some martyr to music. I prefer Stevie Winwood. Stones. That’s my space, Susie Get Some Sense.” He was being provocative for a reason. He wanted them to break this bullshit and talk. Because something different was up.

Susie sulked, putting her hands on her seductive hips, “I wasn’t talking about Kurt Cobain, sweetie, I was talking about orgasm. Heaven. Where I want to take you.”

“I know Susie Getting Sense, I’m just not a sucker for spirited bullshit, and never a fan of handcuffs. What if you guys had bad intentions… huh? What would a guy do?” This was intentional provocation… what was strange at the Zanzibar Club was not divulging by him playing his role in their drama, so he was creating his own. He was changing their shit up!

Margot stopped dancing, stock still, like she had fight or flight options as her next best bet. Eyes big as ashtrays, she glared at him… in fear. He hit a nerve. Donnie knew these human behaviors, and the signs. He picked up his cellphone rather casually and cued up Cliff’s thread, Susie 2-cents was bitching in the sexiest voice she could muster, “C’mon my beautiful troublemaker. You desiring Big Sal or the real honey in me and Margot?” She was squirming and massaging her own erogenous zones as inspiration.

Donnie had finished tapping out, “Cliffie. Things r weird here. NOT normal. Gonna try and get the boys and out.” He set the phone down… He turned to smile at the bitchy vixen, then turned back to the phone, and texted, “Deleting our text, not sure. But don’t want them on this. Yes, that focking weird.” He deleted it and reset the phone on the side table.

He stood and walked over to the frightened whore… wondering why she was… and he heard a scuffling sound from the bathroom area. Maybe the closet, but it didn’t fully register.

He tickled Margot’s under-chin like a sweet pet, looking her in the eyes, a mere 18 inches away. “Tell me Margot. Tell me, what’s going on? Uncle Donnie knows something’s up, sweetie. You wanna tell Uncle Donnie?”

Her eyes began to tear up, and her throttled voice shook a little, “You want me to suck your nuts?” It emitted almost of its own volition, a distraction, a diffuse reality, another day, another way to make a living… all of it was cluttering the pained mind of a good girl who went bad. And now, more than ever, she realized, her parents were right… her sisters were right… “Your choices, Missy. They’re gonna catch up to you one day.”

Donnie didn’t stop looking in Margot’s eyes… but she stopped looking in his. He turned, looking at Susie, no words. She said what he never expected.

“Don’t say nothin’ Margot. Shit, girl, don’t say nothin’.” Then she returned to the seductress, “C’mon my man! Susie wants to ride your cock like it’s a fucking bronco”, the cute double entendre having no effect on the war vet. Her sexual provocations were now failing miserably as her client sat on the edge of the bed and started to put on his boots… Susie expressed no insult, she did think it was weird, in boxers and if the guy was quitting the whores, he puts on his boots first?

“Where you goin’ sweetie?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Margot?” He looked back over his shoulder, Margot’s face was dripping tears, her hands at her mouth, holding something back.

Susie hurried to the client and knelt down in front of him, “Just the way I like my man.” She was pawing at his penis, that had now grown to a tensile strength of wet linguine. He pushed her head away.

“I’m more interested in Margot.” With his boots on, thoughtful preparedness to the military man, soldiers and boots… could be lifesavers… he walked over to the fragile hooker. Margot hadn’t moved an inch… he knew she wanted to say something… “C’mon sweetie, what’s going on? This ain’t normal for you, hon. What’s going on?”

Susie, still crouched on the floor, now red-faced and angry, “Don’t you say it, Margot. Don’t say nothin’.”

He was standing in front of the closet door as he addressed Margot, who still hadn’t moved… if you discount her raking shivers as movement. He shouted over his shoulder, “Shut the fuck up, Susie No Sense. You’re on my dime, so shut the fuck up.”

He was back to within inches of Margot’s beautiful, fluttering, watering eyes; he said nothing. He just looked at her… in kindness. Like maybe he could save her.

“They’re gonna do something bad.” She squeaked out. Alarming news, but Donnie was not at all affected as he already knew that… his senses told him as much. Calmly, Donnie, replied even more tenderly, “I know honey. But maybe we can stop ‘em.” He really didn’t think such a thing, but there had to be hope for the vulnerable girl to speak up. “I’ll get you outta here with us.”

“Margot don’t…” Donnie grabbed a throw pillow from the bed and heaved it at Susie like a frisbee. “Shut up, Susie Dipshit.”

“You’re only getting’ in more trouble, fucker.”

Donnie was back to Margot’s eyes. “Tell me, Margot. Are my buddies in trouble or just me because I’m a wiseass?”

There was silence.

“C’mon, Margot. Tell me.”

“You’re all in trouble…” she barely was able to get it out, she was trembling because she had loved Ginny and knew without absolutely knowing.

At that, Donnie heard another odd noise from the closet… right next to him. The door suddenly slung open, and Donnie didn’t wait. He thrust a sharp fist into the neck of the first assailant falling out of the closet, and it collapsed the big man. The girls were both howling, Susie, naked, was trying to get out the locked front door – Margot just fell into a ball, screaming like a siren.

He realized the thugs were coming through a panel in the backwall of the closet, and there were at least two more. He brought a boot up into the scrotum of the next assailant. His best advantage was the tight space they were coming at him through.

Then he saw the gun.

Donnie spun away as the first shot rang out, and he had no time for calculations, only remembering they were on a first floor, so he sprung for the window, banking on any scenario out there, glass or not, over a handgun with lots of bullets; he in his boxers. It was more punishing than in the movies, as shards of glass thrashed him, another shot was fired. He had no sense of damage as he hit the ground and rolled into some garden landscaping, giving him a brief blind to any shooter. Adrenaline was spitting in rivers through his system, no pain could be felt. It was run or be killed, so he took an angular tac that would make a shooter’s precision most difficult. And he barreled through the plants into open grass and finding his boots hitting the hard-pack of the desert leaving grass… then into loose sand and scrabble. He was escaping wherever it would take him.

He said goodbye to The Zanzibar Club in his boxers, battered with bloody wounds he didn’t know he had, but running in time-travel speed. Bullets winging into the night.

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