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BEST ENJOYED COLD
PART SEVEN
‘Reptile’
“She spread herself wide open to let the insects in
She leaves a trail of honey to show me where she’s been
She has the blood of reptile just underneath her skin
Seeds from a thousand others drip down from within.”
The Lonely Man licked his lips with anticipation.
He was sat alone in his dark one room apartment in a small, Midwestern town. His table was littered with the detritus of his solitary life; spent cartons of old takeaway meals and delivery pizzas, unwashed plates and overflowing ashtrays, empty cans and scrunched up tissues. The blinds were down and the air in the room hung heavy with the reek of musty carpets, stale tobacco smoke and body odour.
But, to hand, he had a nice new chilled six-pack of beer, two packets of cigarettes still in their cellophane, and a warm burger in a bag.
In the centre of it all stood his pride and joy; a 22-inch wide screen monitor hooked up to the PC below the table.
He logged onto a new site he had been introduced to. He tapped out his moniker and lit up a cig while he waited for approval.
A minute later the message ‘Welcome Lonely Man’ appeared.
It was followed by an empty Password box.
He entered his security pass and waited thirty seconds or so.
Finally, he was in.
He could see there were already twelve of them online. All his favourite people in the world; Mengele, Yakuza, Nine Inch Nail, Hoffman, Bondage 666 and others.
The words “Hi lonely.” appeared.
“Hi guys.” He typed, exhaling a ring of cigarette smoke, watching his response emerge along the bottom of the screen.
He pulled out a tissue and wiped his sweating forehead. Then, slowly, almost reverently, he lifted up his other pride and joy. It was a plastic mouth that he lowered carefully onto his dick. It was a top of the range, battery-powered blowjob device. As soon as he flicked the power control, his darling ‘girl who never said no’ would start licking and sucking him to heaven.
The screen flickered and a new name was online: the most important one of all.
“Hi Red Mist.” He rushed to type on everybody’s behalf.
“Hi guys.”
Then he could see that the screen had switched to web cam mode. The site was broadcasting. A real voice repeated the typed words.
“Hi guys.”
The speaker used a voice distortion box but the words were easy to understand; deep, asthmatic, electronic, like Darth Vader from Star Wars.
“Welcome friends. Are you ready for some action tonight ?”
Whimpering with excitement, the Lonely Man slid the power control of his plastic girl on at its lowest setting. It hummed softly round his dick. How did it compare with the real thing ? The Lonely Man didn’t know and didn’t care. This was without doubt the best sex he could imagine.
On the screen, a camera panned over the naked female body. She was strung out along a medieval style rack, her arms and legs outstretched, connected to wooden axles that could be turned further and tightened.
Her pale flesh glowed with perspiration, her muscles taught with apprehension, her head almost totally covered in a black leather hood. She was naked but for the hood and a shiny black bikini and thong.
From the top of the hood a blonde ponytail emerged, plaited into a guiding leash. And from the mouth slit, a cruel steel ‘spider gag’ forced her red glossed lips wide open, revealing her pearly white teeth and pink tongue.
What a
twisted bitch, volunteering for this. He wondered vaguely what she looked like.
It was hard to imagine she could actually be as hot as the visible parts
suggested. He’d wager her actual face underneath was chanky.
He whimpered again, staring at the girl’s taut ribcage and humongous cleavage in the leather bikini. Slowly a black-gloved hand appeared from out of shot and cranked the top axle a few degrees, making the rack creak and her stretched mouth gasp.
“So, are we all ready ?” The distorted voice asked. “I would like to remind you that our friend here stated there should be no limits and she asked that you all be as imaginative as possible.”
The Lonely Man slid his power control down a notch and moaned; not yet, please, not yet.
“May I have the first suggestion please.”
*** *** ***
Rachel tried to scream again but the gag reduced her howl to a saliva-choked gurgle.
“That’s a fun idea.” The electronic baritone echoed above her hood.
Her muscles burned as she tried to spread her thighs and thrust her hips upwards to ease the angle for the clenched fist as it wormed its way inside her.
And then she felt a searing agony the like of which she’d never even dreamed of. It was like fire, tearing, ripping, cooking her vagina.
She heard disembodied laughter from the audience over the speakers. She couldn’t see through her claustrophobic hood but she knew people were watching over some kind of computer link-up.
“Now her ass !” an excited voice urgently beseeched.
She quivered helplessly on the rack as she felt a thick digit invading her bottom and in seconds a terrible flamethrower of agony gutted her rectum. Again she tried to scream but to no avail.
Cue more uproarious laughter.
“A five minute break, gentlemen.” Said the man in the room with her. “And then the insects will be served !”
*** *** ***
Charlie surveyed the house from his hired Chevy through military issue binoculars. It was a sultry, red-skied evening; Friday, 31st March 1995. He could see her through the window. She was almost 37 now and yet she still looked so much like the 18 year old girl he’d first set eyes on half their lifetimes ago. Boy, how much he’d loved her then. And how much he’d hated her after.
And now ?
Now that he knew the truth ?
He realised his hands were bending the steering wheel. Truth was, he loved her, always had and always would. Proportion, like many things, had never been his strong point. He had punished her unduly. And punished himself unduly. And yet the only person who should be punished was …
Well, that could wait a while. One-two-three-breathe.
Truth was he had never married and had never loved anybody else. Nor had she.
And above all, he had punished his Son. The Son he didn’t know. The Son who didn’t know his father. The Son she had named after their favourite singer-songwriter. The poet whose music they first made love to.
Leonard Cohen.
And the Son who would celebrate his 18th Birthday the very next day.
Slowly, Charlie climbed out of the Chevy, locked it and started towards the house.
He had spent almost twenty years engaged in some of the most terrifying warfare and ruthless hand-to-hand combat in global history. Not once had anything frightened him. He had always laughed in the face of danger.
After all,
he never had anything to lose.
And he wondered what his Lover and Son would say when he appeared at their door after all this time.
Would Famous Blue Raincoat take Red Mist back ?
Or would he lose his Family forever ?
Suddenly, without any warning, Charles Victor felt real fear.
*** *** ***
It was a modest 1960s timber house on the lower slopes of the Hollywood Hills, ten minutes from Sunset.
The combined FBI and LAPD team surrounded the house and yard and then the lead agents bust in the front and back doors simultaneously.
The place was registered to Ms. Melanie Jones and locals confirmed that she had lived there alone with her son for twenty plus years.
Five minutes after the forced entry, it was apparent that neither Ms. Jones nor her son was in. Furthermore, neither had been home in quite a while.
Over the following 24 hours, it was to become apparent that the place had been ‘cleansed’ by total professionals. There was nothing left to indicate anything personal about the people who had lived there; no clothes, no books, no PC, no music, no papers, no tins of food, no cans of drink.
“Walt.” Said the West Coast Head to his boss back east.
“It’s like a show home. Just basic furniture. Table, chairs, sofa, bed without sheets. Not new. Used, but totally clean. Like nobody ever lived here yet.”
“Well dust the damned place again.” Walt Furness replied, exasperated.
“That’s it, Sir. We have. Twice. And we haven’t found a single print or hair.”
There was a silence.
“But there’s a note. It was found glued to the underside of the kitchen table. Typed. No prints on the sheet of paper. Just eight words in large font.”
“What did it say ?”
“The trail stops here. Trust us. The Chameleon.”
*** *** ***
Susan Cumber knelt while the collar was sealed round her neck.
The woman she had come to know as her Nemesis smiled.
“There we are. Now we don’t have to worry about chains and ropes and all that stuff. Look !”
Susan choked, unable to breathe, as an electric current coursed from the top of her spine down her nervous system to her feet. She fell forwards face first onto the floor, trying but failing to scream.
“If you take one step outside this compound, that’s what will happen. Get up !”
Slowly, Susan struggled back onto her knees, gagging.
“Pl … zzz …” she groaned. “No m … more. My husband w … will get you your money, I promise.”
The woman laughed, tucking the controller for the electric tag collar into her belt.
“Oh yes. I forgot. Thanks. The money arrived safe and sound some time ago. We’re all multimillionaires.”
Susan shook her head, struggling to hear and comprehend.
“Wha … ?”
“Yes, good old John. He’s done his part. Now you just have to complete your part of the deal.”
My part ? Surely …
“I don’t un … understand …”
The woman smiled like a mother explaining homework to her kid.
“Look. Your husband
had to pay to buy you all the opportunity to earn your freedom. But now
he’s done that, you still have to do your bit.”
”Wh … what do we have to do ?”
“Well, we’re going to be here for a while. You see the money is a bit hot so we have to wait for it to chill.” The woman reached and lifted Susan’s chin with her fingers so that both of them were looking into the other’s eyes. “You see, even money is best enjoyed cold.”
“H … how long ?” Susan gasped.
The woman shrugged. “I’m not sure. A year or so. Maybe a bit longer.”
Unable to stop herself, Susan wailed. “Noooooo … nooooooo !”
A short, milder shock soon brought her under control.
“I must warn you that outbursts like that will only extend your sentence. You have just added one whole month to your thirteen months stay. ”
Completely defeated, Susan simply hung her head like a punch drunk boxer. Be strong ! Be strong for Rachel, Lorna, Ryan. And John.
“Good.” Her Nemesis said. “Now, a few new rules. While here, you will make yourself useful. You will work 18/7. That’s eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. Your duties will include anything and everything, from domestic chores, to performing massages to … naturally … any sexual demands that are required. Is that understood ?”
Susan merely stared at her, mouth frozen slightly open.
“Is that understood ?”
Her hand shot up to her cheek to caress where she had been slapped.
“Y … yes.”
“And when I say any sexual demands, I mean ‘any’.”
The woman waited, clearly expecting a response.
Susan bobbed her head slowly up and down.
“Yes … any.” She mumbled.
“Well, that’s all clear then. Let’s go put you straight to work.”
*** *** ***
There was excitement in the room at last !
After days of no progress, the investigation finally had something to go on.
Eighty agents and officers were being addressed by Walt Furness.
“Leonard Jones.”
He pointed at an image of a man wearing a Fedex uniform, looking straight into the lens of what was clearly an office lobby CCTV and sticking his long, lizard-like tongue out. The man was grey haired, clean shaven and he appeared to be middle aged, maybe mid to late forties.
Walt Furness pressed a button and produced a new slide. It showed a different, younger, clean cut, quite handsome youth of around thirty.
“Leonard Jones.” Walt repeated with irony. “Same guy, different appearance. Ladies and gents, we are dealing with a master of disguise. Or to use his chosen handle, a Chameleon.”
There was the sound of shuffling, murmurs, sideways glances.
“And Homeland Security has reason to believe he is currently still residing within the United States.”
*** *** ***
Six of the reptiles were playing poker in the shade; Gator, the man with the missing ear, Cobra, the huge black man with the shaved head, Gecko, the heavily tattooed Russian, and three others.
The atmosphere was intense. Large piles of chips were stacked in front of several players and increasingly smaller ones belonged to the rest. It was evident that the millions each man now possessed in his foreign bank accounts were being wagered on No Limits Texas Hold’Em.
Skink, a Nigerian mercenary, surveyed the table with a motionless, poker face.
“Raise.” He said, pushing several $10,000 chips forward.
Gator laughed. “Gotcha !”
Skink froze, then grinned and looked down between his thighs. Lorna Cumber’s head was glued to his waist. Now that his side bet was lost, Skink relaxed and forgot about trying to hide his orgasm from the table. He groaned and seized the chica’s long hair, pumping her head up and down on his dick.
“Blow her fuckin’ head off, Skink.” Gecko encouraged.
“Man it’s coming out her ears.”
Skink pulled and twisted her hair so that her face appeared above the rim of the table, lips closed tight, gulping his seed.
Everybody laughed. Skink pushed a $10,000 chip over to Gator.
“Your turn, Gate. Now let’s see you keep a straight face !”
He pushed Lorna back under the table towards Gator’s seat.
“Get going bitch … Now, I think I just raised you all.”
*** *** ***
The young FBI agent was quivering with excitement.
“Sir.” He said, holding a printed piece of paper out to Walt Furness and John Cumber. “We have him.”
There it was. In black and white.
A reservation had been made for a Mr. Len C. Jones on American Airlines, Flight 1385, from New York to Bridgetown, Barbados. Departing JFK the next morning at 09.55 hrs.
“The ticket was purchased with cash from a midtown Manhattan travel agent two days ago.”
John Cumber punched his right fist into his left palm and muttered ‘yessss’.
“It’s a single ticket, Sir. One way.”
“Barbados ?” Walt mused, stroking his chin.
“The nearest international airport to St. Vincent, Sir.”
“Where my fucking billion dollars was wired.”
The young agent grinned at them both with a triumphant flourish.
“There’s more, gentlemen. A small 4-seater jet has been chartered from SVG Airlines to fly from Grantley Adams Airport, Bridgetown, Barbados to E.T. Joshua Airport in Kingstown, St. Vincent, tomorrow afternoon.”
He paused for effect. “To fly a single passenger. Chartered by a certain Lennie Jones.”
Walt looked at the agent and then at John Cumber.
“Let’s go hunt our reptile guys !”
*** *** ***
Susan stared in horror.
“This is your bathroom.” Melanie said, thrilled by the expression on Susan’s face. “Now that y’all gonna be around for a while, you and your boys will need somewhere to do your stuff.”
The squalid room had not been touched in maybe thirty years. It was an ancient, open plan washroom with two toilet pans, two stand up urinals, two shower heads and two basins with unframed pieces of mirror above. Everything was filthy, stained, rusted, cracked and decrepit. The overflowing toilet pans had no seats or covers. The urinals and basins were yellowed by years of dripping. The shower heads oozed slime.
The entire concrete floor swam with liquid; water, or worse. Decades old cigarette butts, scraps of newspaper, toilet roll and stinking mush had clogged the toilets and urinals. Graffiti scrawled in excrement adorned the grungy walls.
“I’m going to lock you in here …”
Susan turned her face to look. “B … but …”
“ … with one bucket, a rag and a bottle of disinfectant. And I’m giving you two hours. When I come back, the whole place had better be beautifully clean. Or else.”
“Take the strain.” Leatherback announced.
Several mercenaries were watching and gambling on the ‘tug of war’.
“Heave”.
Ryan Cumber and Gene Collins were connected by a length of cord tied tightly round the shafts of their penises. The cords were a blend of nylon and wire, incredibly strong, and they were coiled tight underneath the rim of each purple helmet to prevent them slipping off. Each boy had been given Viagra to help him maintain an erection through the pain.
“Aagh.” They screeched and gasped in unison.
Croc and Boa lashed crops against each lad’s defenceless body.
“Pull, you fucker. My money’s riding on you.”
It was no contest really. Ryan was six plus and muscled while Gene was five seven and puny. But a couple of mercenaries were relying on Gene, if flogged sufficiently, causing an upset at generous odds.
Oh well, it seemed a harmless way of passing a sultry afternoon.
*** *** ***
Lennie sat back in a First Class seat for the first time in his life.
He admired the blonde stewardess who served him a glass of champagne, as she leaned over to ensure he got a nice view of her deep cleavage.
He felt a twinge in his groin as he imagined reaching out and grabbing her tits. Like he would soon be able to do to those Cumber bitches.
Out through the oval window by his side he could see frantic activity as the baggage handlers and airline staff filled the plane with suitcases and fuel.
He felt no emotion, no Star Spangled banner. It was goodbye and good luck as far as he was concerned. God bless America but he doubted he would ever set foot on her rich soil again.
Now he had riches of his own.
A male steward suddenly brandishing a clipboard gave him a shock.
He smiled down at Lennie momentarily. Like he fancied him.
“Monsieur Kohn.” The steward said. “Bienvenue.”
Lennie peered back up at him through his dark glasses and flashed his best white teeth smile. ‘Er … Merci’.
“Vous etes Americain ?”
“Nao. Eu sou Brasileiro.” Lennie replied in his well-rehearsed Portuguese. Lennie’s temporary skin colour was mulatto and he had a sharp goatee to compliment his wiry black hair. Every inch a Brazilian. “But … er … I can speak a leedel English.”
The steward gaily flipped into a mix of token Portuguese and flawless English himself.
“Bemvindo abordo, Senor Kohn. Enjoy the flight.”
“Obrigado.”
“I will leave you the menu and entertainment guide. If I can be of any assistance, please do not hesitate to call me.”
Sixteen minutes later, with typically Swiss precision, at exactly 19.55, the Airbus A330-200 that was Swissair Flight 65 took off on time from Miami on its overnight haul to Zurich.
Around fourteen hours later, at JFK New York, an American Airlines flight to Barbados was delayed for several hours as Federal Agents checked out every single passenger, searching for a Mr. Leonard Jones, without any success.
Walt Furness couldn’t help chewing bitterly on eight words:
The trail stops here. Trust us. The Chameleon.
*** *** ***
Walt stood jacketless, sleeves rolled up, in the same crammed meeting room, in front of most of the same eighty agents, but this time there was no air of excitement.
The tang of sweaty armpits, certainly.
Grim determination for sure.
But mostly just resignation.
He projected three mug-shot images onto the screen behind him.
To the left, there was the same clean-cut, modestly handsome youth he had displayed before.
“Leonard Charles Jones. Born Los Angeles, 1st April, 1977.”
To the right, there was a nice looking woman. At first glance, she looked like a standard, well preserved Californian soccer mom. The resemblance with her son was striking, given their age and gender difference.
“Melanie Jones. Born Orange County, 8th April 1958. Unmarried single mother of Leonard.”
And in the middle, projected directly above where Walt stood, was one of the most extraordinary faces most of the agents had ever seen. The masculine features themselves were reasonably ordinary. Tough looking, strong cheekbones and jaw, short military style haircut. He looked mid to late forties but was in superb physical condition. Yet behind the features and within the narrowed eyes, there was something else entirely.
Something indescribable that made the little hairs of each member of the audience stand on end.
“You are looking at Charles Victor. Born Ontario County, New York State, 14th February 1957 to an American father and an English mother. Served nine years in the British Armed Forces and has since worked around the world as a mercenary. Current whereabouts unknown. We believe he may be the biological father of Leonard Jones.”
The silence in the room was palpable, as if hearts had stopped beating. At second glance, there was something about the mouths of the two men that was similar, though far from obvious.
“Charles, Melanie, Leonard.” He enunciated each name slowly.
Walt Furness picked up a marker pen and wrote on the white board.
C – H – A
He turned briefly to glance at his audience then carried on writing.
M – E – L
There were murmurs.
L – E – O – N.
He calmly placed the pen down and stared everybody hard in the eyes.
“Gentlemen, ladies; The Chameleon !”
END OF PART SEVEN
BY VELVETGLOVE
CONTINUED IN THE FINAL PART
‘KARMA CHAMELEON’
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