26 comments/ 11415 views/ 1 favorites White Only Ch. 01 By: NOIRTRASH In God we trust, YOU pay cash. All characters are adults. ***** 'The Yukon Yankee Yodeler' wasn't high on my list of movies I wanted to see but my target was Canadian, and that's where he led me. He sat close to the screen, I sat behind and across the aisle from him. I was steeled for two hours of boredom. But it didn't happen. An hour before show time the theater ran non-stop commercials and previews of coming attractions. It's all deafening and mind-numbing. Canadians can't get enough. About the time I thought it was about over, and the movie would start, a guy walked to one of the emergency exit doors and opened it. Two guys came inside through the door and stood in front of the audience. All pulled pistols out of the jackets and screamed in a language I couldn't understand. Then they opened fire on the audience. It was too dark to see their targets but my guy collapsed on his seat. I'm a cop. I pulled out my pistol, took aim at the shooters, fired, and dropped two of them. The third shooter fled out the exit door. I followed and caught up with him as he was driving away in a Cadillac Land Yacht. I shot him through the driver side window. He had no ID on him. No problem. I took his gun and got his tag number and phone, then I left because I didn't wanna deal with a shooting investigation by the Feds, state, and my agency. "Why invite a three ring cluster fuck into my life?" Is what I thought. I caught the case anyway when dispatch got my location and knew I was close to the movie complex. Mostly I passed out business cards, collected names of potential witnesses, and kept the tv crews and lookie-lou's outta the auditorium while the criminalists and medical examiner worked. I planned to run the tag number back at the office. My guy was dead. His wife, Audrey Smith, called me the next day. The dead were Anas Ahmadi, 20, and Sami Nasser, 21; I never learned the full name of the mystery shooter. The car was registered to a female named Judy Kauffman. Kauffman was a prominent local bleeding-heart and member of all the organizations that hate America and love its enemies. I paid her a visit after she called Yaseen's phone. The phone chirped. I said something like, "uhhh?", and she replied, "Yaseen? I need my car!" I got her cell number. I got her address from the car tag, and I went to see her. No one was home. I let myself in and waited for her. No burglar alarm. Judy's not OCD enough for burglar alarms. I looked through her underwear but found squat. She unlocked the door and came inside around eleven pm. After she flipped on the light and saw me, I asked, "Tell me about Yaseen." I showed her my shield. She didn't care. "Get out! I don't talk to cops. You got a name for when I call your boss to raise hell and get you fired?" I handed her a business card. "Now get out!" I hadn't found any evidence of Yaseen in her house. I stopped at the Night Owl Diner for a later supper or early breakfast. It was midnight. The server was a gal named 'Dolly.' "The usual?" She asked. She meant sliced roast beef on white bread, with gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a Hawaiian roll. "Sure," I replied. She was back in less than ten minutes. "Busy Friday? Brad is going hunting." "Meet me at Ruth's Chris Steakhouse at seven." I don't do steady girlfriends and romance. What works for me are married girls who want a good steak, plenty of booze, a fuck, and some cash. Usually when daddy is outta town. The girls go home with all their important places full of steak, booze, cum, and money. It's unlikely Bradley ever took her out for a good steak or a good time or a good anything. My name is Cole H. White My middle name is spelled Hartliss on the old census records. Hartliss is what's on my birth certificate. But it's spelled many ways. I'm six feet tall, one hundred eighty-five pounds, gray eyes, dark brown hair. Thirty-five years old. I joined the cops fifteen years ago, I've been a detective five years. I work for a tranny faggot named Glenna Beck, formerly known as 'Glenn'. I got home about one o'clock and went to bed. I was at work by seven. I did paperwork and Audrey Smith called me around eight-thirty. Wanted me to stop by to talk to her. We made a date for noon. In the meantime Glenna wanted to talk to me. I guessed Judy Kauffman complained already. "Judy Kauffman phoned me," she said. "How is she?" I asked. "She says you were in her house when she came home last night." "She got home about eleven o'clock and I was outside in my car. She's confused or upset because her car was used in the ISIS shooting. She refused to talk to me and I left. Maybe she'll talk to you about the dead terrorist in her car. Besides, the FBI will pay her a visit soon enough." I spoon-fed him my yarn. Glenna then talked out her ass for fifteen minutes and I left when we both knew she was fulla shit. She knew I went inside Kaufmann's house to look around before she came home. She knew Kauffman and she knew me. It wasn't like doing horoscopes. Kauffman had to explain the dead terrorist in her car. She was Glenna's friend and she was toxic to Glenna's career. My part of the shit sandwich was done. The terrorists were dead and the FBI would do the rest. They'd wanna know who killed them, mostly to give the Washington nigger counters some work. But few got a look at me, and I don't use my official weapon to send souls to Jesus. Audrey Smith was a better looking woman than what I expected. Fifty, one hundred twenty-five pounds, five-three, blonde hair, contacts. Smoker. Drinker. I smelled alcohol on her breath when I picked her up. I wanted to spend the afternoon fucking her. She looked interested when she saw me, and her skirt was short. Audrey Smith reminded me Donna Reed in one of those thin diaphanous cotton blouses popular with cock-teasers back in the 50s. The skimpy cranberry colored bra inside the blouse attracted plenty of attention, too. "We'll talk at lunch," I said. In the car I told her to light up if she wanted. She did. She didn't act like a grief-stricken widow, on the way or during lunch. She let me buy her meal and her booze. She sat close and at the end of lunch I slipped my hand up her leg. We did little talking. Something else was up with us. My dick, for one. "Is this standard police procedure?" She asked. "It's a polite offer. 'Thank you, no,' and 'lemme think about it,' guarantee the outcome you want." She patted my hand. "I know nothing about you." I put her hand atop my cock. She squeezed it. "So you wanna know what my favorite color is? What tree I'd be?" "No! You know what I mean." "Got any doubts about my attraction for you?" I asked. "Maybe you need some Valium for your nerves?" "I feel guilty with my husband not even cold." "Guilt is what we get when we fail to do our duty. Charlie is beyond duty. I can't think of anything that will help his condition. Got enough booze back at your place?" "You make it seem so simple." Her hand remained where I put it. She considered my booze question then replied, "Stop some place." "Okay." I added," It is simple." The Super Centre had a liquor store. She collected bottles of vodka and bourbon, and a jug of sangria. Audrey's place reminded me of a lobby or any place assembled by a no-talent interior decorator for an undertaker. Funeral homes looked more lived-in. All of it was new-cheap and sterile, except for one framed collage of family photos. She put Playboy cartoons between most of the pictures within the frame. Canadians are perverts. They all look wholesome, and every one of them is depraved when the lights are off. I carried the stuff to the kitchen, and Audrey was on her knees unfastening my pants in no time. I wasn't ready for kick-off just then. "Lemme pee," I said. "Want me to get undressed?" She suggested. "Fix a drink and wait for me," I replied. The bathroom was immaculate, too. I knew why she drank. To get the OCD monkey off her back. Laxatives in the med cabinet, too. I wondered if I needed to spray WD40 all over my dick to get it in her. She divined, somehow, I drink 7 & 7 highballs. She had no Seagrams 7 though I prefer Southern Comfort & 7 Up. She had neither, so it was what was left in a whisky bottle she wanted to use up. We adjourned to the bedroom where I removed her clothes as she sipped her drink. Where faggots miss the boat is when they think female attire works on male bodies. It can't. Boys aint got the right stuff and the right places for girly frocks. The right place to feel silky panties is not on your ass or any guy's ass. Chazz Bono will always be a fat girl in drag. She got no balls, so she's not gonna be concerned about her shit being squared away the same way a guy is. Audrey was all girl. God was in his heaven and her shit was where it belonged. My cock was hard and poking out the front window of my boxers. I climbed onto her bed and lay back. She unfastened her bra, pulled it off, and joined me. I guided her to my face and pulled her panties down off her hips and ass. Talk about a new car smell, she invented it! It took no time for her to yelp and spasm. Then she turned over and around so she could suck me while I ate her some more. She didn't care my dick was hanging from my front window. Later she said sex was like zero calorie chocolate since menopause. She invited me to stay for supper but I left and went home for a shower then a quick meal at the diner. "We still on for Friday?" Dolly asked. "Of course," I replied with a smile. I have a beautiful smile. I ordered meatloaf. Afterwards I drove by Judy Kaufman's place. She wasn't home. I waited for her outside. About midnight a car pulled up in front of her place, and she got out with a young rag head in tow. They went inside and I got the tag number. He came out about two o'clock and I followed him. He drove to the local mosque and waited in the parking lot. No one could see me parked across the street. About three o'clock a van came to the mosque and parked near the rag head's car. The rag head got out and opened his trunk. The van driver got out and opened the van's side doors then filled the car's trunk with packaged shit. Then the van left. I followed him to an old warehouse. The driver parked and went inside. I hung around till he came back out and left. I waited a while and got inside the warehouse. It was fulla banded crates. But one crate looked tampered with and accessible. I cut the bands and pulled the plywood top away. The crate was fulla military stuff. Cool. I left and bought a gallon of gasoline at a Come & Go convenience store. I returned to the warehouse and carried the gas can inside. I poured the gas over the shit in the crate, then tossed a lighted paper into the crate. I got the fuck outta Dodge. The crate soon exploded and set the warehouse ablaze. I went home and went to bed. I got to the office about ten o'clock and ran the tag numbers and warehouse address. The car was registered to a kid named 'Omar.' No record. The van was registered to the Metropolitan Benevolent Society. A faggot philanthropy that mostly made lotsa money to pay it's board and bosses big paydays. The fire was already big news. National Rifle Association homophobes torched the place. Hillary jumped on it. It hadda be the NRA or global warming. Next I hadda deal with Omar. I had his address. I assumed the shit was still in his car's trunk. He wasn't home when I paid him a visit. But I went inside and looked around. Then I made an incendiary device from some aluminum powder and a suppository. The potassium permanganate reacts with the aluminum, releases a shit load of heat, and starts a fire if combustibles are close to the mix. And it takes fuggin forever to happen. Thirty minutes. So the arsonist is long gone when the fire starts. Ethylene glycol and potassium permanganate works faster. Ethylene glycol is car antifreeze. But doesn't give you time to get away. That done I had no idea where to find Omar. Fuck Omar. Let the fire find him. It would. The fire marshal or others would smoke him out for me, then I'd play his balls where they lay. If you haven't connected the dots so far, it's like this: my options are let people and events play me for a fool or burn the house down to see what's in the ashes. Let the gay thrift store explain their crate of explosives to the fire marshal and insurance company. I couldn't use it for a bust as I found it without a search warrant. Poison fruit in the eyes of the judges. So I pissed in the punch bowl for all to enjoy. To be continued.