My Dear Lyzako,

Ah, February...Valentine's Day...that dirty, Dirty time of year. It's hard to believe that a full twelve months have passed since the last Dirty Show here in Detroit. Remember that one? The one down in Eastern Market? The one you chose not to attend because of the possibility of unbreathable air due to a large herd of cigarette smoking poseurs? Smart man. Well, that one was Dirty Show 8, and this year's INTERNATIONAL EROTIC ART EXTRAVAGANZA!!!!!! - Number Nine, is quickly approaching once again, the drop off date this very weekend, Super Bowl Sunday to be exact.

I was lucky enough to get a painting in again, and will probably attend the Saturday night party on the 9th. That's the day of THE big party, the one where all the freaks come out. I'll let you know how it goes, but meantime, I'd like to reminisce about last year's show via an edited version of my mid-February missive to you written one hungover Sunday way back then...

2/11/07, 8:33 am

You were so right, my friend. I'm the first to admit my mistakes and I severely underestimated the amount of filthy, poisonous smoke that would be circulating in the room at the Dirty Show party. I spent most of the time I was there either holding up the bar near the entryway, inhaling occasional fresh breaths as often as I could while the doors nearby opened and closed frequently with the arriving throng of revelers, or standing against the wall to one side of the stage, where a doorway that led backstage there issued a steady stream of cool, sweet air. It seemed as though that, in addition to the spectacle of the art show, there was an intense smoking competition taking place, the weapons of choice ranging from the ever-popular Camel cigarette, to the more exotic (and artsy) Indonesian clove variety. There was also an occasional Macanudo, gleefully puffed at by a bearded, tattooed macho type tossed in for additional effect.

The air was blue and I found the atmosphere stifling as my buddy Mike and I entered around nine-thirty.

“Do you know where yours is at?” asked Mike.

“No,” I said, already having to raise my voice to be heard above the din. We made our way along one wall and I spied my painting hanging across the room, pointed it out to him. “Mine's over there,” I yelled.

As we neared my painting, a five-foot by two-foot oil depicting a cartoon Asian female nude deeply engrossed in thought, I looked at the accompanying tag and noticed that there was a small fluorescent red dot stuck near the selling price. When we were nearer and finally standing directly in front of it I did a quick double-take to confirm what I had only dared to hope. Yes, I told myself, that's the right tag, and yes, motherfucker, that red sticker means it's SOLD! Bear in mind, I'll only believe it when I have the money, but for the time being it is one of only a handful of pieces that we saw which did sell, and perhaps the most expensive item on the list at that, my asking price being $525.

I had already picked out a place to hang it here at the house when the show was over, the plan being to install it high on the wall in the stairwell, easily visible only from the master bedroom's ante chamber. I had a hard time believing that it would not be making the trip back here, and later, in the bathroom as we pissed in adjacent urinals, I mentioned the sale to Jerry, who was decked out in a cardinal red suit and black fedora.

“You sold mine,” I said to him with pride, “There's a red dot on the tag and I hope you're not fucking with me.”

“Congratulations,” he said, “I just pissed on my hands.”

The Men's Room was littered with empties and broken glass, and women were regularly using the stall inside due to the length of the line outside the Ladies' Room. Jerry washed up and disappeared into the crowd.

Mike took off after an hour or so, and my plan was to only stay until midnight, but I fell in love with this cute tiny bartender and couldn't take my eyes off her. She looked like a miniature Pam Grier in the face (I know, but it's true!), a crooked grin, sharp nose and slightly gap-tooth smile with a fuzzy mop of short natural hair, barely five feet tall. She was wearing ass-hugging black slacks held up by suspenders that crisscrossed her back, a sleeveless striped top cut low in the front and a push up bra that pressed her little titties together, up and gloriously out. She bent and stretched and served up the drinks with little humor, her tight little body looking fantastic. When she finally came close enough for me to say something I said, “You are cute as hell, you know.”

“What?” she said, not able to hear me.

“YOU ARE CUTE AS HELL!” I said, louder this time.

“Thanks.” Finally, a wide smile.

“Will you marry me?” I asked her with a grin. She just laughed. We talked for a while and she pulled out a can of 'Cocaine', an energy drink that was sponsoring the Dirty event, and popped it open. “You must have been a gymnast,” I said to her. She nodded, said something about 'when she was younger'. “This smoke must be killing you. It's fucking killing me.”

“It is!” she said rolling her eyes.

“Do you bartend anywhere else?” I asked her.

“Will I?”

“No, do you?” I reiterated. It turns out that she only works for Bert and does the special events there. “How's the Cocaine?” I asked. “Does it have caffeine in it?” She carefully turned the can until she located the list of ingredients and confirmed that it did. “Do you drink coffee?” I asked her and she nodded that she did. “Can I buy you a coffee some time?”

“I have a boyfriend,” she said to me with a smile, “I'll just say that.”

“Well, he's a lucky bastard, that guy,” I told her, “Make sure you tell him I said so, too.”

“I will,” she laughed.

“You have a great smile. It's nice to see. You know something always happens with boyfriends,” I went on, “He's bound to fuck up and I don't mind getting in line.”

“In line for what?” she asked, grinning.

“In line to buy you a cup of coffee.” Mini Pam laughed and I fell a little deeper.

The artwork was good, for the most part, and covered everything from photography to painting to sculpture. There was one photo of a long haired man sticking a pistol up a woman's ass and several paintings that featured childlike, bug-eyed females in all sorts of compromising positions, both nude and dressed in fetish clothes. I think the fetish nature of the majority of the work is what made it seem all the same to me. There were no simple nudes, they all had to be posing unnaturally in garish colored light, or fucking themselves with giant dildos. There was a fairly large square painting of a huge-cocked gorilla standing in tall grass, flanked by young not-so-innocent looking white girls.

In the crowd were women walking topless, men walking nearly bottomless (flabby pale ass cheeks on display), and fat white women leading skinny white dudes around by chains secured to collars around their necks. Leather, latex, feathers and fishnets everywhere the eye turned. Near naked dancers, both male and female, pale white bodies writhing with little rhythm in cages suspended above the crowd. It was pretty decadent, but I stayed until it shut down around two, just taking it all in, breathing the foul air, knowing I'd pay for it today and I am, working on just five hours sleep.

After I left, I heard jazz coming out of Bert's next door and ducked inside for the last two tunes, avoiding the cover charge. “I'll have a Blue,” I said after taking a seat at the end of the bar.

“It's after two, I can't serve you,” said the seriously cute, but humorless female bartender.

“How about a water, then?” I asked her. She gave me one, a tiny plastic glass more ice than water and I tipped her a couple bucks. I turned to watch the combo play their last song. There was a piano, drums, upright bass, tenor and alto sax. They were good. The room was filled with attractive black folks and the vibe was so nice it made me wish that I had been there all night instead of killing myself with smoke next door. When the band had finished their set I spoke briefly to a young man sitting next to me.

“I stopped in from next door at the art show,” I told him. He nodded that he understood. “I sold a painting.”

“Cool,” he said.

And it truly was.

Salut! and Warm Regards,
Rembrandt van Sherman

PS: Back to the present... don't tell anybody, but this year's entry is a rejected painting from two years ago, just painted over and retitled. I'll let you know if it sells. If not, I still have that same empty space on the stairwell wall to hang it.

Motown made a big splash on the national news scene last week when our own Detroit Free Press dug up records of text messages between Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick and his Chief of Staff Christine Beatty (also a high school classmate of the Mayor's) that indicated they had carried on a torrid love affair during 2002 and 2003.

Last summer, the Mayor, who is married with children, and Ms. Beatty both publicly denied that there was any such relationship. During the course of a civil proceeding to determine whether a pair of Detroit Police officers were handed their walking papers simply because they were about to blow the whistle on not only the Mayor's extramarital affairs, but also on his personal use of city-provided security staff to cover up said affairs, both parties repeatedly maintained that they'd never had sex together.

The newly uncovered evidence not only calls into question their testimony, but also suggests that Kilpatrick and Beatty made numerous out-of-town trips together on the city's dime, charging expenses to taxpayers and portraying the booty calls as 'official city business'.

Now, the text messages in and of themselves (14,000 of them!) are probably no big deal, right? I mean, what political man of power doesn't use his position to rip off a strange piece now and then? I know I would if I were Mayor. Shoot, I even remember seeing this trial on television and thinking I wouldn't mind taking Ms. Beatty on a trip around the world myself sometime, if you catch my drift. With an extra stop or three in Greece.

The real problem here, though, is that the information contained in the messages not only conflicts with both Kilpatrick's and Beatty's testimony under oath (that's perjury!), but it also supports evidence (which both parties vehemently also denied at the time) that the two officers were indeed dismissed because their ongoing internal affairs investigation might make the Mayor's sexual relationship with his Chief of Staff public.

The judgment went in favor of the two police officers, by the way, who were awarded nearly $9 million in damages.

To make matters worse, an exotic dancer who had allegedly worked a wild party at the Mayor's Manoogian Mansion during the same period in question was murdered in a drive by shooting on April 30, 2003. Family and legal representatives for the deceased woman, who's stage name was 'Strawberry', claim that the Detroit Police Department failed to properly investigate that crime, which has led many observers to believe that there may have been a concerted effort orchestrated by the Mayor's office to limit fact-finding efforts in the case.

Beatty has since resigned and the Mayor has been secluded away from reporters since the news broke late last week.

Hmm, now that she's got some time on her hands, I wonder if I can hook up a booty call with Christine myself. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I always say. Be still my trembling thumbs...Let's see now...

GNBLFY, CHRISTINE! HELL YEAH! U CN TDTM NYTIM! FK'N'SK U, TYVM & DNBL8! IWSN! HELL YEAH! I M Q2C! RU? ;-) MARTY

Since the spotlight is on the Motor City this time , I thought it only appropriate to use another Detroit area gal. Meet Dream, in her own words (and spelling): a 'true freek' who'll do 'all those thangs that your wife won't!' CIM, BBBJ...all inclusive for 150 hugs. 250 hugs gets you full service. Multiple pops for 300.

Last summer I found myself in Los Angeles for work for the second time in as many months. It was a late arrival that time and we dropped into LAX in the dark, the city lights twinkling below us. I was only half awake as I stumbled for the baggage claim area until I got to a long corridor with shiny ceramic-clad walls, the tiny square tiles assembled in broad vertical rectangles of color to form an irregular geometric design of lavender, moss green, turquoise, gold and pink. Overhead, a bank of fluorescent lights were sucking what was left of my soul right out of me.

Suddenly, about half-way down the corridor, I could hear Bobby Womack singing 'Across 110th Street' and realized that I'd seen these walls before. Pam Grier was gliding along in front of them during the opening sequence in Quentin Tarantino's underrated yet brilliant 1997 film 'Jackie Brown'.

Tarantino's third film and his first after the critically acclaimed 'Pulp Fiction' (1994), 'Jackie Brown' stars a still-stunningly beautiful Pam Grier in the title role of an aging flight attendant who gets caught up in a government operation to catch her shady, long-time business associate (played by Samuel L. Jackson), who, with her help, has been moving illegal weapons and money back and forth between LA and Mexico for a number of years.

Based on the novel 'Rum Punch' by Elmore Leonard, the script was re-written by Tarantino himself so the role could be played by Grier, a favorite of his since her Blaxploitation heyday way back in the '70s. The story I heard was that he wanted to use Pam for the part of Bobby's wife in 'Pulp Fiction' but didn't think the role was right for her. To paraphrase an interview I saw with Pam a while back, she went into Tarantino's new office to talk to him about the part of Jackie Brown and saw a bunch of movie posters from her older films... 'Foxy Brown', 'Women In Cages', 'The Arena', and asked him if he put them up to impress her just because he knew she was coming in.

Apparently, Quentin said something like: “No. In fact I almost took them down so you wouldn't think I was a geek.” I think he also managed to get her to autograph them, but I could be dreaming that part.

Anyway, I'm not going to bore you with a synopsis of the movie. Do yourself a favor and go rent it. Aside from Pam and Sam, there's a bunch of great actors in this one, Robert Forster and DeNiro being standouts. Oh, and don't forget Bridget Fonda and her toes. Even the normally smarmy Michael Keaton isn't bad as one of the feds.

So let's get down to the music. As usual, Tarantino has hand-picked and assembled songs that more closely resembles a friend playing his favorite mix tape for you than it does any traditional film score. His typical M.O. when selecting the music is to not only use often under-appreciated pop and soul tunes, but to recycle his favorite film music, too, which he's done here in a couple of clever ways. Not only has he appropriated a tune from the classic 1971 Jess Franco Eurotrash film 'Vampyros Lesbos' (Side Two's 'The Lions and the Cucumber' - music composed and arranged by Manfred Hubler & Siegrfried Schwab), he's let 'Across 110th Street' run over the title sequence and included Pam Grier herself singing 'Long Time Woman', a song which she originally recorded for the 1971 Jack Hill flick 'The Big Doll House'.

The rest of the tunes run the gamut from Johnny Cash to the Brothers Johnson, with some Grass Roots, Minnie Ripperton, Delphonics and rapper Foxy Brown (tossed in a little clumsily for obvious reasons, but hey, it works!) as well. Between songs are snippets of classic dialogue from the film, one of which involves DeNiro and Fonda smoking pot from a bong.

I just recently bought this disc on line and I have to tell you it was a beautiful experience. I already had the CD, which I listen to on a regular basis. Being a big Pam fan and collector, I was on Ebay one night and saw a promo flat for the LP with a starting bid of five bucks. It sounded like an okay deal, but a little steep for a piece of cardboard and no record, especially since the dude selling it also wanted nine dollars to ship it.

I ran a quick search on Google and found this LP at Elusive Disc, still sealed for only $7.99! Since it was my first ever order from them, the shipping was free and the disc arrived at my doorstep just two days later, in spite of the fact that I ordered it three days before Christmas. Now that's what I call service! And, here's the best part, the still-sealed LP in mint condition (obviously) cost me less than that greedy douche bag on Ebay wanted just to ship his piece of cardboard.

Of course it's not the same experience as flipping through dusty stacks of records and discovering an absolute gem amongst the Guy Lombardos, Lawrence Welks and Eydie Gormes. That's a much more physically satisfying process and sometimes it takes years to unearth that one special item you've been looking for.

But if you need to find it now and have it in your sweaty little hands tomorrow, the World Wide Web is the way to go.

Hmm... Eydie Gorme...Gourmet... Of course! That reminds me, it's almost time for dinner. I think I'll go to Domino's website and order me up a pepperoni, onion and anchovy for delivery. That way, I'll only have to get off my fat ass long enough to answer the door. I sure hope I can add the driver's tip with my Paypal account because I'm really short on folding cash, and I don't think he'd appreciate it if I laid a roll of nickels on him.

Just to set the record straight, folks, I am NOT a Democrat. Have I voted for Democrats time and time again? Yes, I have. But I've also wasted plenty of votes on Independents in my day, and I threw away a big one on Ralph Nader a couple of elections ago. Remember that fiasco? Nader pulled just enough of the electorate away from Al Gore so that he had no clear margin of victory in Florida, and Governor Jeb Bush handed the state's 25 electoral votes to big brother George W. on a silver platter.

The real culprit was tricky positioning of candidate names on the ballots and the mechanical nature of the ballots themselves, which caused thousands of votes intended for Al Gore to be accidentally miscast for Patrick Buchanan. For the next month America held our collective breath while recounts took place and the term 'hanging chad' was rammed down our throats so often I felt like Linda Lovelace at a wrap party.

Anyway, the point is... I'd forgotten how fucked up our entire electoral process was until this year. We haven't even completed the nominating part and I'm already sick to my stomach. Just take a look at the front-running Democrats, for example.

Hillary would do anything to get back into the White House and this run for the Presidency has been her and Bill's plan ever since he vacated the Oval Office to make way for Bush back in 2001. They moved to New York, set up shop and bought Hillary a seat in the Senate, where she's been patiently waiting for her chance to strike. Well, now it's here. America is so sick of the Republicans and politics as usual on Capitol Hill that they're even willing to consider voting for a WOMAN. Not only that, they're also contemplating the merits of voting for a BLACK MAN. For 'change', they say. Imagine that.

Change is what we need, too. We need to change this whole fucking nominating process! Look at these two at each other's throats, taking each other's statements out of context and parsing sentences to make the other one look bad whenever possible. And fucking Bill is putting in way more than his two cents-worth, too, in my opinion. Issues of race and gender have been brought up when you'd think Hillary and Obama would be far and away better off to disregard any mention of either. Why draw attention to the fact that the Democratic Party is trying to position either one of them for an historic run at the Presidency?

Don't get me wrong. I voted for Bill Clinton. Twice. I think he was a great President, and probably the most fiscally responsible one we've had in decades. But just because I voted for Bill twice doesn't necessarily mean I'd vote for Hillary once. She's proven in the past few weeks after losing in Iowa that she can be a vicious, shrill, manipulative shrew. Cry some more on camera, Hillary. Women might buy that bullshit, but it ain't gonna work on me.

What bothers me most is I don't understand how the Clintons can pull out their attack arsenal on Barack Obama after claiming that they've worked all their lives so that African Americans can have a chance to do just what Obama's doing right now - run for President of the United States. Leave the man alone, you two, and stick to the fucking issues... health care, the economy, the fucking WAR for Christ's sake!

Just between you and me, I think Bill is itching for his third term, something nice and easy where he can work behind the scenes, still serve his personal political agenda and not have to make speeches four times a week. Not to mention it would give him another opportunity to dip his wick in a chubby intern or two.

But suppose either Hillary or Obama get the nomination, and let's say John Edwards is the running mate. Do you really think all those Red States will vote for them? Sure, the Democrats in those states will. The problem is there aren't enough Democrats in those fucking states. Texas, Kentucky, Nevada, Wyoming, Alaska, Nebraska...both Dakotas, both Carolinas... Honestly, do you think they'll suddenly turn blue? I'm guessing no.

You two lunkheads have been wrangling over the women's vote and the black vote. Hey! Wake up! Unless you're able to get some of that coveted redneck vote, you can't possibly win!

But just the fact that a woman and a black man are in contention at this point (whether they have a snowball's chance in Hell of winning or not) is interesting. I can't help wondering how long it will be before a BLACK WOMAN can run. I'm thinking 2016, and I'm thinking Pam Grier. Huh? What do you say? If Arnold Schwarzenegger can be Governor of California, why can't Pam be President? The Pam Grier for President campaign starts right here, right now!

All we need is a slogan... Let's see... I'M DOWN WITH FOXY BROWN!... No that's too ethnic and it doesn't use her real name. How about A VOTE FOR PAM IS A GRAND SLAM!... Hmm, maybe a baseball reference wouldn't be good, but hopefully that steroid thing will be long gone by then.

Anyway, let me work on it. I'll get back to you.

Three beautiful asses for the three asses again this week (I like Obama, and would probably have left him off the target, but I like asses even more.)... At the top of the list we have Capri. She specializes in nude sensual massage, starting at 200 kisses, but other services are negotiable. You'll find her on the Miami page.
Next up is Idol, an exotic dancer and escort who works out of Vegas and is available for private shows. Her rates start at $400. Nice ass and some really nice shoes...really VERY nice shoes...yeah...mmm...

Finally we have India, a dancer and model who's been featured in 'Big Black Oiled Butt' magazine (who knew there was such a thing?). You'll find her on the Brooklyn page and you can call her for rates. No emails or blocked numbers, please.

SEVERAL DEATHS IN
THE FAMILY
Chapter Thirteen: Deep In The Heart Of 'Fucked'

When I was able to force my eyes open again, finally see something besides the bottomless black hole of Hell, nothing looked familiar. It was as though I had simply jumped from place to place with no recollection of how I got there or how much time had passed.

The room was small and the only window in it was covered with thick burgundy drapes, the kind you buy when you have to work nights and sleep all day. Beige shag carpet covered the floor, a dirty path worn from the door to the window. Brick-red stains clotted the nap in various places, some the size of a softball and bigger. I guessed they were probably spilled blood, some of it might even be mine. A tiny brass lamp sat on an old, worn chest of drawers in one corner, its naked thirty-watt bulb glowing faintly, no shade. The only furniture in the room besides the chest of drawers were a handful of mismatched dining room chairs, one of which I was tied to with several lengths of clothesline. I was alone. And I didn't have a stitch of clothing on.

I could feel pain in my right cheek and could see swelling there, along with some blood running down from a split on the bridge of my nose. My head was throbbing, pounding a dull ache in time with my beating heart. I clenched my fists, tightened all my muscles against the restraints of the rope to test the job they'd done in tying me, rocked the chair around in circular motions to see if there was any play in the legs. Whoever had bound me to the chair had done a fairly sloppy job and, given some time, I was pretty sure I could wriggle loose. My wrists were tied together in front of me, the rope then looped around one chair leg to hold them tight to the seat between my knees. Each of my ankles was tied to a front leg of the chair and clothesline wrapped around me at the elbows, completely encircling the chair's back as well. Another rope secured me just below my shoulders.

After rocking around a bit, I discovered that the chair was loose at the joints where the legs met the seat and I suspected that it if I could get myself to a half-standing position, it wouldn't take much to break the legs off. I might even be able to snap the back away from the seat if I could land it just right.

Suddenly I heard voices from outside the door, speaking a mix of Spanish and English. When the door swung open I was surprised to see a face that I recognized from somewhere. A face that didn't belong to a Mexican for a change.

“Remember me, pard?” the face said. “From Cincinnati?” He was black, tall and thin, shaved head. His eyes were pale brown in color, the white parts slick and filmy like slightly-yellowed hard-boiled eggs. He was carrying a sawed-off shotgun when he came in, leaned it carefully against the chest of drawers before spinning around one of the chairs and sitting facing me, his arms draped over the back.

“Oh, sure,” I said. “Now I remember. You're the guy I gave the toe to.” When I felt the words come out I realized that several of my teeth were loose and my jaw ached. The coppery taste of blood played across my tongue. “I'm just relieved that you're not Mexican. If I see another Mexican I think I'll scream.”

“Ha ha. You think you pretty bad, don't you, slick?”

“You mean 'bad' like Michael Jackson or 'super bad' like James Brown?”

“I still got that toe,” he said with a grim look on his face. “Lil Papi didn't want it, didn't even want to look at it.” He patted his chest. “I had it dipped in liquid plastic and it's on a chain right here. Right next to my heart.”

I could hear rustling just outside the door, a pair of voices, one of them female. It sounded like Felina. The black guy yelled “Bring her in!” In one motion the door flew open and Felina fell to the floor, pushed down by a tall Mexican with pigtail braids. It was Hector. He grabbed her by one wrist, lifted her up and threw her into a chair, which toppled and fell backwards to the floor. Hector reached down with both hands and roughly put both her and the chair upright, then gave her a vicious backhand to the face.

“Whoa, man,” said the black guy. “Ease up, baby.”

“Why are you fucking with us?” I asked him. “How come we're still alive?”

“Well, if it was up to old Hector here, you wouldn't be. He couldn't stand the idea of his bitch cheatin' on him and would have gladly put a bullet in both of you. Lucky for you, I was there when it all went down and realized what we fell into.” He waited a minute, looked me over, turned slowly around and looked at Hector and Felina, before turning his head back towards me. “Believe it or not, slick. Lil Papi thinks you have potential.”

“As what? Dog food?”

“Ha ha. No, as an employee.” He drew the last word out with space in between the syllables, extra emphasis on the final one.

“You gotta be shittin' me.”

“No, sir. I'm not,” he said. “I can barely believe it myself. But you see, Papi ain't quite right in the head anymore.” He tapped his forehead with his left index finger, the nail shiny and buffed. “He's still the boss, though, and I do as I'm told.”

“So this is your interview process?”

“Sort of,” he said. I could see that Felina was looking at Hector with a combination of fear and contempt. She seemed to be hurt, but not seriously.

“What about the girl?” I asked.

“If you say yes, she lives. If not, I'm afraid both of you have to go.”

As we were talking I had been alternately relaxing and tensing all my muscles, breathing deeply then completely emptying my lungs. I'd managed to force some slack into the clothesline. I hoped it was enough because I wasn't going to get more than one chance.

“Well, what if...” I hesitated, looked around him at Felina. She looked me in the eye. She looked scared. “What if... Listen, can you move in a little? I don't want the girl to hear this.”

He eyed me warily, looked at Felina, then leaned in and put his head next to mine. He was so close I could smell onion on his breath. “What if I told you...” A pause as I looked over his shoulder again, then: “What if I told you that I was bad like Rambo?” I whispered.

He turned a puzzled face to me and I lunged, my teeth fastened tight on the rubbery bridge of his nose, the taste of blood on my tongue again.

Only this time the blood wasn't mine.

SEVERAL DEATHS IN
THE FAMILY
Chapter Twelve: The Music Played - Felina? She Whirled

Felina kicked off her boots and turned her back to me. She was wearing skin-tight Baby Phat jeans. I reached around her and unfastened her belt, slid the zipper down on them, then grasped the denim on each side of her glorious ass and tugged downward. Felina wriggled back and forth, giggled and took a swig of tequila as her pants hit the floor. Bending over, I held the bunched material at her ankles while she stepped out of her jeans. On her right ass cheek Felina had a tattoo of the Baby Phat logo, the curious cat wagging its tail, in the exact same position as the logo on her jeans.

“Cute tat,” I said, brushing my lips across it. “Kitty cat... Titty tat...”

Felina giggled some more. “Thanks,” she said.

“Now don't move,” I ordered her.

I ran my hands over her soft flesh, around the mounds of her rump, slowly down the sides of her thighs, squeezed her plump calves, leaned in close and breathed in a lungful of her scent. She was getting excited. I looked up at her sweet face. Felina chewed softly on her luscious lower lip; her eyelids drooped. My hands roamed up and under her white cotton panties, through to the front, brushing past her full bush of pubic hair, up and over her warm tummy. I took a handful of ass flesh in each of my palms, squeezed firmly, lifted up and away and took in more of her aroma as the cheeks parted and Felina melted the rest of the way.

“Bend over,” I said.

Felina put the tequila bottle on the floor when she bent forward, steadied herself on the arm of the chair at the writing desk as I ran my mouth all over her beautiful round ass. I chewed at the panties, tugged them taut through her crack, nipped at the soft round mounds of flesh that filled my hands. Felina's breathing got heavier as I worked my face deeper, exploring her musky center with my tongue and lips, rubbing my beard and stubble all around her brown cheeks. With the panties pushed to one side, I made a meal of her, ate until Felina bathed my face in her juices, her legs quivering uncontrollably to the point where I thought she might not be able to stand.

“Mmmm,” I said as I slurped away. “Lat's light labee, let it lowww...mmmm...”

Felina's hand was on my cock, squeezing and rubbing it through my underwear as she cooed and moaned with pleasure. When her orgasm subsided, she turned slowly towards me, peeled her ZZ Top tee up and over her head, reached behind and unfastened her bra. I just watched as she slid the straps forward and over her shoulders, freeing those two beautiful globes of breast flesh, which bobbed and bounced as she bent down and kneeled before me on the floor. “Hand me a pillow,” she said as she steadily rubbed and stroked me.

After putting the pillow under her knees, Felina let her head drop into my lap, her hot breath driving me crazy as she chewed and licked right through the material, her slender fingers gliding over my torso, up and under my shirt and over my nipples, her soft hair tickling and teasing my stomach. I let my head slip back, my eyes close. Suddenly I felt the magical wet warmth of the inside of her mouth as Felina bobbed up and down in slow rhythm on my joint, her fingers still gently tweaking my nipples. “Oh my god...” I moaned as she pulled up and began swirling her tongue around the shaft, then up and down its length before taking it back inside her mouth and working it hard.

It didn't take long before I was on the edge. Felina had moved her hands to my crotch, cupping me with one hand while working the base of the shaft in a tight grip with the other as she noisily increased the speed of her mouth motions. “If...you...keep...that up...I'm gonna...”

“I want you to,” she said with a lustful smile as she continued to stroke my cock. “Go ahead, baby.” A couple more tongue swirls around the head. “Give it to me. I really want it.” Then she got serious, bobbing faster and faster, twisting her head back and forth so it felt like a dozen tongues were working on me at once.

In a matter of seconds I exploded like I never had before... a throbbing wave of pleasure, intense, lengthy and strong.

“I like it here in Dallas,” I said when I got my senses back. “The people are real friendly.”

“Go get me a beer,” she said, licking off her fingers. “I need to get this taste out of my mouth.”

* * * * * * * * * * *

I woke up naked on top of the sheets. It was still dark outside and I could hear the sound of rushing water from the bathroom. The alarm clock read 4:38. A minute later Felina emerged from the john dressed in bra and panties, pulling her tee shirt on over her head. “I'm sorry, but I have to get out of here,” she said. “My boyfriend will kill me if he finds out I didn't come home all night.”

“You have a boyfriend?”

“Don't worry,” she said. “He doesn't live with me or anything. In fact he's in San Antonio right now and won't be back until later. But his people will know if I'm gone all night.”

“What do you mean 'his people'?”

“Actually, he's kind of a thug,” she said. “Real macho. Mostly just posing, though. He told me he was in a gang once, but I don't believe him.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because he can be a real sweetheart, that Hector,” she said.

“Hmm...Hector, eh?...Does he have any tattoos, by chance?” I asked.

“He's Mexican,” she said as she pulled on her jeans. “Of course he has tattoos.”

“I don't suppose one of them is a pair of crossed knives on top of a big Mexican flag...?”

Felina looked at me and her eyes widened as her face took on a puzzled appearance. Then she finished my sentence. “On his chest. Yes. How did you...?”

Fuck my luck, I thought. Just how in the hell was I going to tell this sweet, beautiful girl who I'd just made love to, who made me forget every single one of my problems and satisfied my every sexual desire like few women had ever done before... How was I going to explain to her how I knew?

How was I going to tell Felina that there was a photograph and description of her boyfriend in my briefcase and that I had driven all the way from Kansas City for the sole purpose of killing him?

Read Chapter One
Read Chapter Two
Read Chapter Three
Read Chapter Four
Read Chapter Five
Read Chapter Six
Read Chapter Seven
Read Chapter Eight
Read Chapter Nine
Read Chapter Ten
Read Chapter Eleven

I think I get it now. Bear with me while I try to explain this...

Ever since the Bush Administration decided that putting 'two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles and onions on a sesame seed bun' was tantamount to working the line at Chrysler, the Big Three have been in trouble. Here in Michigan, the automotive industry is our bread and butter, and its rapid decline over the past eight years, during which time the White House practically ignored our plight altogether, prompted state legislators to try and get in on this Presidential Primary thing from the outset this year. They figured it would force the candidates to pay attention to us.

Late last year legislators here in Michigan decided to move our primary election to January 15 reasoning that it would give our citizens a bigger say in who next gets to warm his/her lazy ass on that plush leather chair in the oval office. A good idea, but it happens to violate the Democratic National Committee's nominating 'rules', which specifically forbid any states other than Iowa, New Hampshire, Nevada and South Carolina from holding nominating contests prior to February 5.

The issue went back and forth in the courts here before the state's predominantly Republican-appointed Supreme Court decided to overturn a lower court's ruling to stop the election. One of the key points of contention was the fact that individual voters will have to decide between a Republican or a Democratic ballot. Their selection will then be linked to their names and the information will be made available to both parties, but not to the public, which raises questions about 'public funds' being laid out for 'private use'.

After swiftly redefining the terms 'private' and 'public', the Michigan Supreme Court kept the January 15 primary on the calendar, and the Democratic National Committee responded by deciding to keep all of the Michigan delegates from attending the National Convention as punishment. The Republicans decided to exclude half of their delegates. However, Convention rules allow nominees to petition for reinstatement of the delegates. Confusing? You bet your ass it is.

What it all boils down to is this: The only front-runner on the Democratic side that will appear on the ballot is Hillary. Barack Obama and Edwards both withdrew their names in order to avoid violating the 'party rules'. Since the Republicans don't give two shits about rules anyway, we'll have our choice of all of their front-runners, from 'Dimwit' Mitt to 'Tarantula Brain' McCain.

The only way we can show support for either Edwards or Obama in this stinking Primary is to vote 'uncommitted'. We can't even write in a name or the ballot will be voided. Democrats here are urging us to go the 'uncommitted' route because if Mr. Uncommitted garners 15% of the vote, then they will be forced to send that many delegates who can then cast nominating votes for somebody other than Hillary, provided that the delegates are even reinstated.

Cynical folks are telling us to forget about the 'uncommitted' vote and cast a Republican ballot for McCain, who they perceive as the most Democratic of the Republican bunch.

Now I ask you: Is this way too fucking complicated or WHAT? Is it any wonder kids flunk Government in High School?

Imagine you are African American and living in the city of Detroit (which has pretty much been flushed down the toilet by the Republican Party ever since its racial mix became overwhelmingly black) and you see Barack Obama running for President. He inspires you. Maybe it's your first election, this Michigan Primary, and you can't even vote for him because of this muddled mix-up mess of a show the Democrats have put on here. Can you even imagine how distressing and incomprehensible that is? Other than a fucking politician, who can understand these arbitrary and illogical goddamn rules?

Why on fucking earth should we have to wade through all of this ridiculous red tape in order to cast a vote for somebody who we think should be our next President - Republican, Democrat or otherwise?

Sadly, because of all this the Democrats didn't even bother to show up here in Michigan to campaign. The Republicans, however, made high-profile appearances at the North American International Auto Show yesterday, which ironically also takes place this week at Cobo Hall in downtown Detroit.

Oh well. I guess I'll go vote now. I know the smart thing for me to do is vote for McCain, even though I don't want him to be the next President. But shit, I hate the idea of Romney being in there even more. It sure takes the starch out of it to vote for Mr. Uncommitted, though.

Hey, I know. Since I'm pretty much wasting my time and tossing a vote away anyway, I think I'll write in Harry Sphincter and give one of those old crones who counts the ballots a laugh.

Whew. Since I was so overly verbose in this week's column, I think I'll just say: Here's Princess. She's from Chicago. STUPENDOUS BOOTY!

Marty Sherman (business associate and brother-in-law):

Dirk hadn't been the same since they diagnosed him with liver problems. He was a great guy, though. Just mad at the world. And boy could he drink. I never saw anybody who could put it away like Dirk could. He drank me under the table more than once, and I'm no slouch myself. I'll miss the bastard.

M. Alan Pennywhistle (friend and author, A.K.A. 'Ye Olde Blowharde'):

The world's not going to be the same place without him. He could look at a sunset and see different things than you and I might see. He was one of a kind, that Dirk. A good friend. I remember the time he and I hitched to New York City back in the early sixties. We saw Monk at the Five Spot. No wait, that wasn't Dirk. He was too young to have done that. Who could that have been? Was it Solly? No...

Oh well, that Dirk sure was a great guy. And a fine poet, too. Yep. He did like jazz, that much I remember.

Marty Sherman:

Dirk was a funny guy when he wanted to be. Just a funny, funny man. One of the funniest things I ever heard him say was - and he was serious as a heart attack when he said this - he said: “It took me fifty years to realize that I'm a slow learner.” Ha ha. That Dirk. I wish he would have called me before he did it. I might have been able to talk him out of it.

M. Alan Pennywhistle:

Now I remember. It was Sherman and I. Sherman came with me to see Monk. Yeah, Sherman. But Dirk really dug jazz, too. I'm sure of that.

Marty Sherman:

The noose? Everybody wants to know about the noose. It's pretty simple really. Dirk was a Boy Scout when he was a kid. He could tie any damn kind of knot you named. He didn't learn that particular knot in the Boy Scouts, though, I'm sure. But he was a wizard with rope. And boy could he put the liquor away.

The last known poem of Martin Kenneth Dirkson (found printed in ballpoint on a legal pad near his bed, dated 1/13/08):

The fetal position, huddled in bed
I moan, I cry, I weep
For only nightmares come to me
When all I want is sleep

-Prof. Dirk Beat

Dear Lyzako,

Monday morning has greeted us here with dead calm, a dusting of snow and yet another dense blanket of milky clouds to blot out the sun. Without sunshine there are no hard shadows anywhere and the landscape takes on a flat, dull appearance, the predominant January color scheme consisting of shit brown, scum green and dull gray.

Oh but Saturday, did we have sun! As Ol' Sol furnished summertime to the southern hemisphere, he generously tossed a few leftover rays northward which slanted over the trees and rooftops, warmed the ground and lit the booth where I ate my breakfast, made the pearl gray Formica table top glow with fuzzy skewed rectangles of white light. I had the 'Special': a pair of eggs over medium, two strips of crispy bacon, two link sausages, a thin slice of ham (with pineapple ring), American fries and wheat toast. All washed down with ice water and several cups of coffee, of course.

I chose the booth where I sat because of the southern exposure and the sun, but it proved to be a mistake right away when a middle-aged couple sat directly behind me, the woman talking loudly on her cell phone and complaining about something or other to somebody. She continued the yakking, so I finally decided to set my book aside, unable to concentrate on the words because of the overheard half-conversation. Oh well. I figured I'd just sit there and dig on the sunshine.

By the time the woman finished talking, my food had arrived. I must tell you at this point that to compound my frustration, sweet Suzy wasn't working this particular Saturday (and her heart-shaped rear wasn't talking to me as she walked to and fro, either), so I was being waited on by the loud, clumsy woman whose name I forget. The one who resembles Olive Oyl... pointed nose, round jaw, straight hair, thin neck, thin arms, just plain thin. Assless, breastless and almost sexless. She walks too fast, talks too much and way too loudly, scampers around the room with her 'More coffee over here, Hon?'s until I just want to scream. At various times when new customers arrived and questioned her as to how she was doing, her response was always the same: an eardrum-shattering “Just peeeeeachy!”

Some months ago, she actually spilled hot water all over the table, my book and on my lap while trying to refresh my tea. But that's another story.

Anyway, I'd pretty much given up on the possibility that breakfast would be a soothing experience. Olive Oyl just wouldn't allow it, and after the cell phone conversation had ended, the woman sitting in the booth behind me had begun berating her poor spouse. “Don't pick your teeth at the table,” she said to him. His voice was so gentle and weak that had she not been there I wouldn't even have known anyone was in the booth at all. I didn't hear him say anything in response to her 'tooth picking' admonition, but it was all I could do to keep from telling her to 'Shut up!' myself.

When I got back home, the sun was still shining, angling in under the awning in the kitchen. On the window sill over the sink I noticed the wishbone that I had leftover from Thanksgiving, the one I promised to share with you. The one I had forgotten all about.

I picked it up, took an end in either hand, closed my eyes and made a wish for both right and left. I figured that I couldn't possibly lose, right? When I pulled, the damn thing split exactly in two! The two pieces were so similar in size that it was impossible to determine a winner. Somehow in the carving of the bird I must have nicked the knob in the center of the bone with my knife, creating a tiny fissure that allowed the miraculous break.

So what I want to know is, do I get my wish or not? I'm guessing that I don't. First off, it's a breach of wishbone protocol to play by oneself. Plus, I just am plain not lucky that way. Even when I get the big part, my wish never seems to be granted. As proof I offer this...

The last three wishbones that I shared with my wife, I closed my eyes, pulled and found the bigger portion in my hand every time, but never got my wish.

Each time when I opened my eyes, she was still standing right there in front of me!

Very Truly Yours,
Marty Sherman

PS Since there was no clear winner in the wishbone department, I guess it's okay tell you what I was wishing for: Right hand wished for sunnier days. Left hand wished for Suzier nights (heart-shaped ass and all!).

Born Lester William Polsfuss in Waukesha, Wisconsin way back in 1915, guitar great Les Paul is as much an inventor as he is a musical virtuoso. Over the span of his eight-decades long career, Les has been granted almost as many patents for guitar design and recording devices as he has been awarded music industry awards.

A Rock Hall inductee in 1988, he is also a member of the National Inventors Hall of Fame and the National Broadcasters Hall of Fame. He and his former wife and performing partner Mary Ford were inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame in 1978, and Les was awarded a Lifetime Achievement Award by the Grammy Board five years after that.

But Les's main claim to fame is the invention of a solid body electric guitar that helped to birth the sound of Rock and Roll. His first attempt to get what he was looking for was a simple 4x4 fence post rigged with strings, neck and pickup. Infamously known as 'The Log', the instrument raised more than a few curious eyebrows until Les added a pair of wings to make it look more like a traditional guitar, and then 'Voila!', musical history was born.

The Gibson Guitar Company began producing Les Paul models in the early fifties and by the time the sixties rolled around, major rock guitar legends from Keith Richards to Eric Clapton to Jimmy Page were playing Les Pauls (It's a good thing Les's mom came up with the idea of a shortened stage name, by the way. Can you imagine Jimmy Page hammering away on a Les Polsfuss? It sure doesn't have the same zing, does it?)

In addition to his innovations in guitar design, Paul is credited for the first use of multi-track recording techniques, which allowed him to play over previously-recorded tracks and layer the sound of his instrument, and this box set of 45s is the first release showcasing those results. Released in 1950, 'The New Sound!' features not only Les and his guitar multi-tracked, but his wife Mary Ford, who's vocals were given the same treatment. The result is a unique (and at the time, never-before heard) sound that foreshadowed industry standards for recording all the way up to the current day.

When Les was in a bad car crash in the late forties, the doctors informed him his right elbow was so severely damaged that when they set it, it would be in that position for the remainder of his life. The plucky Mr. Paul promptly told them to make sure that it was set on an angle so that he could cradle and pick his beloved instrument.

Variously associated with jazz, country and rock music, Les Paul followed his own musical path over the years, performing at the first Jazz at the Philharmonic concert in 1944, backing popular singers from Bing Crosby to the Andrews Sisters and cutting country sides in the thirties under his hillbilly pseudonym 'Rhubarb Red'. (Oddly enough, I have my own hillbilly moniker: 'Moonshine Marty'.)

If I had the original 10” LP release of 'The New Sound!' in the same VG+ condition, I'd be looking at a forty to sixty dollar item. As it is, I guess the collectible quotient of this historical recording drops due to the fact that I have six singles to deal with instead of one album. Even so, all the discs are clean, scratch-free and play with only minor surface noise, and this great cover (I wish I knew who did the artwork because my clumsy rendition hardly does it justice) is in nearly perfect condition. The best part? It was a rare junk shop find that I paid a whopping fifteen cents for!

Believe it or not, you can still check out Les and his crooked arm playing Mondays at the Iridium Jazz Club in NYC, and the dude's pushing 93! Long Live Les Paul!

Okay, I'll be the first to admit that I know almost nothing about politics. And I'd make a horrible President, mostly because I'm just not a very good liar.

For example: If I had transformed our thriving economy into a giant turd with a skyrocketing budget deficit, a shrinking middle class, millions of manufacturing jobs lost via overseas outsourcing while at the same time involving us in a multi-trillion dollar war in Iraq with no end in sight, I'd be hard pressed to gild that steaming pile of dung and serve it up to the American people like good old George W. has been doing for the past six years.

But hey, that's me. I figure you guys are smarter than that.

Last night I was switching back and forth between the Pistons/Celtics game and this so-called 'debate' amongst the Republican and Democratic front runners on ABC. I'm not going to bother getting into who believes what here, or what each candidate's positions are on any given subject. Suffice it to say that the Republicans have all bought into the idea that our latest troop surge in Iraq is working and they all want to take some credit for supporting it from the beginning. The Democrats are on the opposite side of that particular fence and believe we should begin immediate withdrawals.

There are arguments across the board about just how all this should be done, of course, but the gist of it is, the Democrats favor an end to the war while the Republicans think things are going well and that we need to stay the course, which obviously would require Bush passing the sword to one of them.

I was struck by one of the things that Giuliani said when Charlie Gibson asked him a question about what principles he would bring to the office of the President. He said something to the effect that there was more to being an elected leader than paying attention to public opinion polls and doing what the people wanted to do at any given time.

No, there isn't, you arrogant bastard. That is the very essence of what an elected official is. Senators and Congressmen are selected by the public to represent our local interests. The President is elected to serve the national interest. If the American people as a group think it's time for this farcical situation in Iraq to be over, it IS the fucking President's JOB to figure out a way to do it. And that is that.

Obama struck a note when he campaigned on the simple idea of 'change' in Iowa and blew everybody out of the water. Guess what. All of these Republican bastards adopted the word 'change' (as did Edwards by the way) as a magical catch word that would help them to garner votes. Do they mean it? Fuck no. It's all just a bunch of lip service to see who can get the most 'face time' during a two-hour gabfest masquerading as a 'debate'.

The Republicans were at each other's throats last night, too, with accusations of lies and flip-flopping on issues flying from every camp. Even though Romney lost in Iowa, they seemed to attack him more than they did Huckabee for some reason, but I'd be willing to bet that if Romney gets the nomination and one of those other Bozos gets offered the position of running mate, whoever it is would lick Romney's rectum like they were best-buddy Terriers frolicking at the dog run.

By the way... that smug John Edwards may get expensive haircuts, but some of these Republican geezers should consider giving his barber a try. Hey, Senator McCain! That fuzzy mop of yours looks like there's a tarantula nesting inside your skull! Do something with it! A bag of Bic disposable razors only costs three bucks!

Like I said, I don't know much about politics, but I do know the difference between right and wrong. Lying is wrong, especially when done for selfish motives. War is almost always wrong.

And pretending that this combination ABC News commercial/hot air session (between a bunch of egotistical millionaires who give lip service to the word 'change' just to get elected) is a 'debate' of any kind seems very wrong to me.

You want change? Here's a good change for you: Let's NUKE EVERYBODY! Cuba and Venezuela... BOOM! BOOM! China... BOOM!! Russia... BOOOOM!!!! Korea (North AND South - FUCK 'EM!) KA-BOOOOM!!!! The ENTIRE Middle East... KA-FUCKING-BOOOOOOOOOM!!!

I bet that when they get a good dose of nuclear fallout, those Africans would straighten their goddamn act up, too.

Then we annex Canada and Mexico, turn Australia back into a penal colony, make all of Europe our bitches and spend our vacations in Japan.

I just love their sexy little women.I figured the six asses this week deserved six sweet cheeks, so let's start off with Ebonee, who works out of Detroit and Cleveland and gives full service with multiple pops starting at 250 diamonds...Next up we have Hailey. You'll find her on the Pittsburgh page and she specializes in GFE and offers foot worship and domination sessions. Now that's what I call a BOOTY...And finally there's Kiko, a half-Japanese, half-Hawaiian beauty from the Seattle area who caters to upscale gentlemen, ladies and couples. Her rates start at $300 for one hour and Kiko's also available for overnight visits and travel.

SEVERAL DEATHS IN
THE FAMILY
Chapter Eleven: Shocked By The Foul Evil Deed

My eyes were frozen wide open. Even so, I didn't see the cluster of shiny liquor bottles on the shelf behind the bar, no longer saw my reflection in the mirror there. Nor did I see my hands - my murderous, filthy hands - the right one clutching a bottle of Tecate, the left numbly wrapped around a double shot of cheap tequila.

No, I just stared straight ahead seeing only the ugly hole in the back of Ricardo's skull after I'd pulled the trigger. Then I saw myself slogging his limp body out to the dumpster, his forehead a blossom of crimson and torn flesh where the slug had pushed through. I relived my struggle to get him up and over the rim. Again and again I picked up the shoe that had fallen from his foot and tossed it in after him. Unblinking, I saw it over and over, the scenes often flashing by in double time, quick jump cuts, like a badly-spliced-together home movie. Except for the hole. That goddamn hole just floated there in front of me, burning a black spot on my retina. I was hoping if I drank enough, it wouldn't do the same to my soul.

“Aren't you going to drink it?”

Jarred back to reality, I squeezed my eyes shut, tried to force the horrific images from my mind. When I opened them, she was still there. And she was still damn cute.

“What?” I stammered.

“Man, you spaced out! I said: Aren't you going to drink it?” She was pointing a delicate index finger at my shot.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just thinking about somebody I used to know.” I tossed the tequila down and chased it with a long pull of beer.

“I'm relieved,” she said. “I thought for a minute there that I'd over-served you.”

“Not possible, my dear. Not possible.” I finished the beer and set it in the tip tray. She fetched another one. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Felina.”

“Really? Like that Marty Robbins song? I don't believe it. I've never met a Felina before.”

“My dad's from El Paso and it's his favorite song,” she said.

“I like it,” I said. “To your health, Felina!” I toasted with the new beer, drank it nearly half down. “Are you as wicked as that girl in the song?”

Felina eyed me, smiled and licked her lips, gave me a glimpse of her silver tongue stud. She had short-cropped hair the color of coal, artfully mussed. Her eyes were as black as the hair, framed with long lashes, her skin a golden shade of bronze. “Just try me,” she said.

“Don't mind if I do,” I said. “What time do you get off work?”

“Three.”

I winced. “Well, Felina, I'm gonna head back to my room and take a nap, but I'll be back for last call.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Motel 6 over on Mockingbird Lane. Room 106.” I looked her straight in the cleavage, her plump brown boobs squeezed together, the delectable flesh between exposed by a ragged vertical slash that opened up the neck of her black ZZ Top tee shirt.

“Mmmm, a high roller, I see.”

“Nothing but the best,” I said with a smile, pulling out a pair of twenties and putting them in the tip tray.

“Why don't you pick up some beer and I'll just meet you over there,” she said. “I might even be able to get out of here early. Earl owes me a favor.”

* * * * * * * * * * *

I pulled out of the parking lot of Pluckers, my gut full of barbecue wings and beer, my mind now awash in the image of Felina the bartender's sexy smile. The air was cool and fresh after the rain that had passed through earlier, and shallow puddles threw up dazzling reflections of neon and headlights. The world suddenly seemed shiny and clean to me. I rolled down the window and hung my arm outside so the night air could invigorate me.

I stopped at the gas station across from the motel and picked up a twelve pack of Tecate and a bag of ice. Once inside the room, I stoppered the sink in the john, slid as many cans of the beer in it as I could and covered them with ice. It was a little after midnight. After taking off my pants, I killed the lights and turned on the radio. Mariachi music. Not exactly nap-inducing. I twirled the dial until I snagged some country and western, set the alarm for 2 a.m., then hit the 'sleep' button...

A full bladder forced me awake around 1:30. I stumbled stiffly towards the bathroom, banged my knee on a chair, then limped the rest of the way to the toilet, cursing my clumsiness. When my eyes finally focused I noticed a trickle of blood running down my shin.

I plucked a can of beer from the sink, popped the top and dropped back into bed for a few more minutes of rest. I didn't really believe Felina would show, but it was good to be thinking about something other than my own problems for a change. In fact, I'd just about made up my mind that even if I killed every last rotten fucker in the Gonzalez gang, I wasn't going to let it bother me any more. This whole thing was their fault, not mine. I should be back in Detroit, drinking beer at Hot Tamales and stuffing bills in Sharon's ass crack instead of plotting revenge murder on a bunch of rat bastards that I didn't even know.

Just before two o'clock, a pair of headlights swung across the moss-colored curtains that covered the window in front of the room, briefly bathing the bed in eerie green light before going out and leaving me sitting in quiet darkness again. A car door thumped closed and I heard footsteps click up to the outside of my door. Then a gentle knuckle rap. I got up, went over to the door and looked through the peephole. It was Felina alright, looking nervously around as she stood there. Looking a lot like she was having second thoughts.

I turned on the light, pulled back the deadbolt and swung the door open. “Entrez-vous, Ma'mselle...” I said with a flourish, waving my arm to direct her inside. “I'm very happy to see you.”

“What did you do to your leg?” she asked, noticing the blood.

I looked down. “Oh that,” I said. “Just a scratch. Nothing to worry about. Care for a beer?” She smiled and nodded. “Make yourself comfortable.”

When I came back with two fresh beers, Felina was sitting on the bed pulling the cork out of a half-empty fifth of Patron. “I boosted it from work,” she said to me with a wink. “I love these over-sized handbags.” She patted the brown and black leather tote that sat on the bed next to her.

The radio alarm snapped on, mid-song.

“...Blacker than night were the eyes of Felina, wicked and evil while casting a spell. My love was deep for this Mexican maiden; I was in love but in vain, I could tell...”

“No way!” she cackled. “No fucking way!”

“It's a sign this was meant to be,” I said seriously. “Now turn around and let me have a look at that ass.”