0 comments/ 2443 views/ 0 favorites Moses And Curio And The Raving Wigg By: dannychellette Thrashes of light sporadically washed over the pulsing milieu, unrelenting high-hat flourishes tapping their teeth while the vibrations of the kick drum bounced their heads fore and aft. Their bodies were a vessel containing a dearth of gleeful sensory overload. Dozens of the turned-on were turned out to imbibe in the full gale-force trauma of a mere night where the stars were glued to the sky above their heads. The night's scintillated cavalcade rocked together in a shared effort to wave away the rising of tomorrow's sunrise. They reviled the notion of that sun's jarring glare hitting them full on in their faces as they exited the safe lair of their exuberant brethren. Easier, it was, to bask in the blinding flash of the xenon strobes bouncing across their sweaty bodies absorbing the nectar of one love in their laser-lit and smoky cocoon. They writhed and slithered amongst each other as vipers do when in the midst of courtship, eager for the same outcome to await them after the mating dance and the elaborate courtship, however extended or fleeting it may last. It was a Saturday midnight in Birmingham. Saturday nights in the rave clubs were not right for fighting at all...aggression, ego, rage and pettiness nil when utopia was so easily compressed into a pill. Doses of exaltation dissolved on the tongue, each more divine than a sacramental wafer whose ingestion merely suggested heaven was in their future. Those wafers provided the hope of floating in the clouds. The ones swirled around in a swig of hot saliva and cold Poland Springs provided actual floating in the clouds with lithe and consummating angels...or their money back. And there was no need for scripture to be read, Reznor and Moby had the verses and curses all covered, no need to think...only be. The idea of inglorious rapture and the outright straight-arming of every care or problem they had in their mortal worlds drew in God's children at the cost of only fifteen single notes, Presidential. Beyond the black-lit doorman with his UV-greened teeth and glowing stamp of approval were carnal needs and expectations of those earthly needs to be met. Within the four walls and earshot of the finest electronica available on wax or media player, they danced without a set of pre-learned moves. There were no rules to their motions. In the blasting of strobe and varied lights, they embraced with their eyes both their same sex and their opposites. At times, the spark of smoldering eyes found tinder in their groins, was blown upon, and caught up with that flicker of sweaty flame. If the party gods were appeased sufficiently, they eloped into wondrous pairings of exploratory caresses of tongue and fingertips. In between, they drank copious amounts of freshly chilled water from faraway lands...like Atlanta, or Zephyr Hills. Designer drugs were changing the face of clubs in 1994. Of course, the old tried and true mixer bars with purple hooter shots, the night's ESPN showcase, and fried jalapeno poppers would never fizzle out completely. There was enough comfort in the brew and the burger to keep the doors to the traditional bars open. If HIV did not keep drunks from trying to fuck strangers at clubs in the 80's, nothing would. A whole new generation of youth enamored with free love and floating above the humdrum now dabbled in ecstasy...the name said it all. They eschewed for the most part the coke and glam metal speed scene of their older siblings. They tried the old standby, heroin. Many mixed LSD and ecstasy and splashed around in manic bliss, flowing with the go. Far from needing the legally mandated kitchen and wait staff bringing pitchers and pre-bussing, a decent rave club need only bring in a guy who was into the music and having his own DJ setup and a dream to club for even more people in the future. Whereas a typical old-fashioned mixer bar needed beer vendors, liquor licenses, a concept and kitchen menu, location, location, location and heaps of insurance, a rave club stock up a few number ten washtubs with Sam's Club waters, buy a decent sound and light show setup, rent some old warehouse and get the power turned on. Then get some heads to paint the inside with fluorescent paint and hand out flyers at the colleges. Drugs of course brought out the riff-raff as beer brought the macho and the sloppy. The wink and the nudge handled most problems easily enough. If someone were ripping people off, a dropped note to one of the numerous undercover cops everyone knew was around would pinch the offender. If someone got too overt with the public display of the baggie, he would be asked to make sure the parking lot was his office lest the authorities drop the hammer, slaughtering the cash cow for all involved. Further party fouls would end permaently with a traffic stop out of nowhere. What a person had dissolving in their bellies as they paid the big dude at the door a ten for a stamp was their business. Outside in the world of the palmed twenty and the Ziplocked tickets to ride heaven's roller coaster, it was the ultimate personification of caveat emptor. There was always that pesky detail in trying to reach heaven...arrest or premature death. It was one of the wonders of the rave club that the four walls of disunity brought the cast-aside to its den first. Then, only after some gay friends told their fag-hag co-workers or classmates, did the pretty people abandon a usual night at the theater or the bar and grills for a night of illicitness in a tingly purgatory with pierced dervishes and leering freaks they would shy away from at parties. When it was passed along that the world on ecstasy was indeed beautiful to all regardless of caste, catechism or car, the scene burgeoned further with druggies from other scenes...fratboy keg-drinkers, hippie hashheads, wired-up speed-freaks, the odd older couple wearing freshly purchased black leather seeking a diversion from the suburbs, coke-bumpers, crackies, pill-poppers. All welcome, but all knowing the mood was one of transcendental loftiness, not getting fucked up. In the world of juicy hard liquor shots and booty music, the focus was on the peacock and his prowess at strutting. Here it was the whole flock of ducklings learning to flap their wings beautifully, often for the first time without the nervousness of am I?... hanging over their gyrations. Now in the unbiased hug of the club, they flowed with the go. Best of all, what they paid for, really, when they peaked, was every care they ever had back in the sane world could be ground down to the tiny gaps between their clenched teeth and exhaled slowly in deep drawings of air through lips permanently molded into the face of a kiss. Reality thus occluded; there was only the sound and the blurry. Later as the hour of the end of it all neared, they stared as casually or as fearfully as their persona warranted at their wide, black pupils in the mirrors of the restrooms and wondered...If eyes are touted as the windows to souls, was their soul so black already at the age of twenty-one, was there no hope? In their foggy midst, a truly depraved soul, who needed no dreamy hallucinatory gaze in some fluorescent white-lit mirror next to partying nymphs with the bent-back sniffles to know her black eyes did match her soul in so many ways, stood off to the side of the throes, her head nodding to the beats. Most of the trip-hoppers danced so much more provocatively in their own minds that they could ever hope to pull off through the swaying of arm or hip. She marveled at their flow, reveled in their nakedly earnest exhibits of carnality. She was getting there herself now, her lofty nirvana needing no pissy shag-head to entertain her pennyroyally. She tasted the tawdriness of her environment, shuddered at the sweetness of the whole damned place. It was just what she needed after a dry spell on the job. Curio Phelonie was no stranger to the world around her. She was no stranger to the creatures of the night in any environment. Tucked against her niche in the wall next to a black-lit poster of a wild-eyed Bob Marley, she waited patiently for the time to make her way to the dance floor. Always a people-watcher in her youth and possessed of a dutiful set of hawkish eyes and ears now in her current occupation, she surveyed the melee. A few of the women on the floor were up to her Pepsi challenge. Like flamenco gypsies, they seemed to float about the floor, their arms waving in come-hither arcs around their bodies and often around the bodies of others as their hips served up their sex through their clinging clothes. She especially gawked at the transcendental pixies with their cropped bobs pinned tightly to their head with butterfly pins. With their girlish braids, their tribal tramp stamps and studded piercings, both seen and unseen, they twirled glow sticks on strings and sucked erotically on both candied pacifiers and their neighbors' faces and fingers as they flittered about the floor. It was a shame the evening was a business meeting for her. A casual menage-a-trois between friends on ecstasy was a delicacy. Eyeballing one particularly cute blonde covered in glitter, she sighed forlornly and licked her teeth. She noted the tiny pale face up in the booth over her head. A nameless man who was paid to wear eyeglasses sans lenses with tiny flashlights mounted on them as he flipped wax records between turntables and loaded compact disks into awaiting receivers in such a manner as to keep an even flow to the state of the buyer's minds. She noted he tried to look cerebral and almost august, though he was emceeing an event where a sweaty breast could slip out of a halter-top and twirl without its lady even realizing or really caring and genitalia was openly fondled through baggy clothes on the floor beneath his feet. The air itself hovered in layers, its existence seen in the pall of smoke breathed in heavy doses that smelled oddly like a baby's post-bath talcum rub until it achieved a state of osmosis with the cigarettes and hot water vapor ejected by its users' pores. The club reeked of a primal freedom. It was a turgid aroma, a foggy slurry of body salts and sultry essence laid bare and boiling like some sexual gumbo set to simmer until served at its peak. In the club known as Lustins, Curio closed her eyes to mere slits and just watched. She had a good view of the water bar and could see who was on fire in the crotch and really feeling fine just by the imbibing of the tiny waters. She stood below and to the right of the DJ booth, just waiting and watching. To the average pair of eyes looking around the club for the faces of those familiar and the oh-so-needing-to-be-familiar-to-me, she was just another nymphet feeling the effectasy and taking a breather to enjoy the euphoric ride so popular among the old warehouse's inhabitants. Now and again, some guy and the occasional girl would try to make eyes at her in the strobe-lit party smoke and rapidly phasing vari-lights. She would merely avert her own eyes and turn her head. Duty, not booty, called. Her own dose was beginning to click on with her. Already, she had the smile on her face; she needed only to be done with work. The tab would not be an imposition on work at all. As Curio watched from behind her half-closed eyes, Darryl Janokowski, aka Janks, moved about the room, slipping tabs into pockets and palms with tightly folded twenties to trade. He was one who had some clout with the two guys running the door. They were a pair of twenty-something's who managed to scrape up enough money selling hydroponic herb to frat houses at Auburn University to get the rave club going. One of the pair had an uncle who dabbled in real estate, who found them the site and got a cheap lease for them. While Janks kept the heads shaking, the club owners were getting ten a head at the door, two dollars and fifty-eight cents profit on every bottled water sold, their dicks sucked a lot, and quite a blow habit trying to keep ahead of it all night after night. Curio figured the club had been open long enough for them to start getting careless and wasting money trying to look like they were ahead of the game. They made it clear that the dealing needed to stay in the parking lot as much as could be controlled. Loud and proud, Janks was going around telling every smiling and nodding head in the place every weekend that he was part owner of the club and he could sell whatever he wanted in there...the implication being that he kept them paid enough to ignore his side business as long as he kept things low-key. He kept it on the down-low alright, if you call every person who walked through the front door displaying a hand stamp in the UV light making a beeline straight for him, then the pair of them heading straight for the restroom or a table where their hands would disappear for a few seconds low-key. Covert was not in Janks' vocabulary. Probably why I'm here, thought Curio as she watched him for a long while. Stupid bastard forgot that shit is a felony every time he does it. What a goddamned idiot. Making a mint but too dumb to keep it shitting cash without someone noticing. Janks was a goofy shit to lay eyes on for the first time. Usually in baggy cargo pants and some rugby-style shirt or in a tee with something zany scribed on it, he wore a ridiculous frumpy Fat Albert hat perched on his afro-styled hair. He was a geeky wigger. A self-styled hardass gangster, though Curio understood that he could always make a dash for the relative safety of his parent's home in Natchez and relapse back to being just a goofy white kid working a fork lift for his dad at the warehouse for the Rainbow Casino on the Mississippi. True to character, he was given to public random displays of ghetto-isms and far more likely to be blaring Tupac, (yo!) on his loud kickers than be in tune with what Metallica or Pearl Jam was up to like all sensible little white kids of his age. A sloppy ragamuffin as he, with his faux-tough, turn-the-gat-sideways kind of hard-nigga-swagga offended Curio. He was packing four gold fronts on his grill, another unacceptable trait in a white boy to her. He was also packing a .380 pistol in one of those baggy pockets and had enough ghetto in his white-bread ass to pull it and start spraying little pieces of lead lacking aim or focused ambition out into the air errantly if he needed a way out. That did not unnerve Curio. It worried the hell out of her partner in all things, Moses Holliday. "He's wild, baby." Moses had warned. "He heard too much, 'shoot them niggas yo' and not enough run rabbit run while he was smoking all that dope back in high school. Kid like that got more swingin' nuts than discipline or sense. Don't play too much with him. We do it quietly and we leave." Incognito, she had gone to see Janks with a lady friend of his the week before without Moses knowing. He was understandably livid when she got back to the hotel rolling her ass off. "Just setting the mood, baby..." She swooned in his arms and soon her womanly efforts made his anger dissolve. It would be an easy thing indeed for a man such as Moses to make Janks stop breathing. He could do that very quickly or very slowly. The cat in Curio, however, wanted to play with her frumpy mouse. He was indulging her tonight. Pissed, but indulging. She loved her Moses. While she was in the club starting to get her roll going and discreetly Kegeling her loins in anticipation of a wild night out on the town, he was sitting in the getaway car, smoking endless Winstons and waiting for her. She could feel his gaze, the whites of his eyes and the cig's cherry the only details recognizable in the black of the car's interior. Moses and Curio had been friends and lovers for three years. He was tall, lean, solid, and unflinchingly lethal. Forty-three-years-old now, convicted a few times for minor offenses but guilty of dozens of the worst kind of murders. He hailed from Odessa, Texas but aside from the west Texas twang that infiltrated his speech and the undeniably cowboy-up stance he retained when upright and comfortable on his feet, few could know he was a Texan. Moses sported scars all over his body, most telling a tale. Ink pictures, some faded, some kept looking fresh, some from legit artists and some from needle and India ink from a stint at some 'take a load off and rethink how you got caught' accomodations adorned his chest and back. Most would see Moses and know instinctively that he was a man of few words but capable of uttering many. He was an avid reader, always had been. His tastes were varied. Bret Easton Ellis's new book could be finished with a jog through a William Buckley essay. He loved Benchley and Crichton, Dale Brown and Amis, Kootnz and Coulter. In Curio's presence he was a cuddler, a great and passionate kisser who whispered delicacies into her ear she never ceased wanting to hear. He would roar with laughter at Carlin and snicker at Johnny but show not one ounce of emotion before shooting a pleading woman in her sweating forehead if the order had been given. Best of all, in Curio's opinion, he could blunt stab through a man's pounding heart with the same dedication to task as he could deliciously dance around her clit with that slightly wet fingertip's mischievous tickle. He was an enigma with those big hard hands. Watching Janks, she thought about that fact in Janks' voice: Dat muthafucka got mad skills, yo! Something Curio had learned very soon after she met Moses was the fact that he had few reservations about snatching up some jackass and punching him in the face very hard with those tough, hard hands of his. He would kill without remorse and had for years before taking her into his confidence. That was not to say Moses was a violent man by nature. In reality, he was a placid and jovial ole boy, always respectful of his young lover's often-precocious whims. Intrigued by his way of life at first, she had made it her own. A very happy one, at that. Tonight, she was partying, enjoying the flow, eager actually to be on the clock and in such a flurry of sex and liberal indulgence in the simple feel of sensual autonomy amongst the throes. Watching Janks, she smiled with the omnipresent gaze of those clenching teeth and enthralled. The goofy bastard may have been the easiest payday she and Moses ever had. Curio looked at her watch. One hour since blast-off! The euphoria was tangible within her. Killing at first had been an uncertain undertaking, always under Moses' strict oversight and planning. Now, she had the taste for it. It was invigorating. Of course, she was operating with a man she now regarded as her own personal Superman, who never seemed in the least bit fazed by the dastardly acts he involved himself, and now her, in. A man who would not duck when shots were fired, who did not so much as grimace for more than a mere split second when the pain of some unlucky mark's retaliation found his flesh. Yet still a typical man, Moses was. Who would zealously protest her nursing him through a flu bug even when he was dog-sick with it. Who would counsel her to check her oil and tires. OPen the doors for her, order for her at the rare opportunties they had in public together. Who would cook for her, clear her table, and clean the dishes without fail when she came to see him. Before they met, his cabin home on Bayou Flechette was a plain, unadorned domicile, littered with tripwires, for Christ sake. Now he grew flowers in boxes along the last leg of his long driveway and would have some new stalks cut, when blooms were possible, awaiting her in a vase. At night, his brutal hands that would fire pinpoint lead into flesh held her face earnestly close to the heart that beat for only her, caressing her back, pulling her to him. Not that she wished to be anywhere but within his embrace. Moses And Curio And The Raving Wigg Curio loved him. She also lusted the job. Already, she felt her panties pulsing with her wetness. Adding ecstasy to a job she was already ecstatic to do was a new pinnacle for her. Killing Janks was an easy enough task. He could have been dead last week. Their employer, Grizzly Fontenot made them hold off until he could find out for certain whether reports of Janks attempting to rat him out to the DEA were founded. The kid moved a lot of product for Grizzly, but he was sloppy. Rumor had it that a DEA sting caught him selling one hundred disco biscuits to a narc. The rumor proved true. Green light was given immediately. A super-remixed, trance-inducing version of Nine Inch Nails' Gave Up erupted, grabbing the twin, short ponytails of the blond wig she was wearing and tossing them from side-to-side as the music dragged her willingly into the middle of the crowd, lasers cutting the V in smoke over her head. Then she was in the fray, another enraptured siren calling a sailor to his doom with her charms. Feeling the effectasy, a pistol in her purse, sheer rapture in her pores, a wet sexual mess in her panties, Curio Phelonie danced wildly to the song, watching Janks and beckoning him to her. Janks palmed four tabs to the boyfriend of a girl that stood nervously with her back against the water bar. She was probably some office chick, he figured. Got a decent job in bookkeeping at some little firm in town. Not far from a trailer park, maybe going to Hinds. The dude seemed the be deferring to her future ambitions, being a gentleman and risking the felony to spare her the risk. Janks sized him up as the guy returned with the score to her. A Belhaven or Millsaps student, probably with some money to get out of it if he got busted. Probably slumming it in his mother's opinion, if Mom even knew about her. The girl was not particularly attractive but tried awfully hard to be so. Probably on a rebound after the high school boyfriend she practiced sex on went away after a diploma. Now she was tasting the sweet air of self-identity and found some hipster with a hemp necklace to show her the dark and sexy side of life as a sexually active young ingénue. Her face brightened, she squealed and then they rounded the corner and went to the darkened seating area to the right of the DJ stand. She already had a bottle of water in her hand. Transaction complete, he looked around for more faces looking around. Seeing none, he propped against wall of the DJ stand and watched the crowd, smiling in agreement or nodding subtly as customers waved in gratitude or blew him a kiss from the tub of vividly lit ravers. He yawned widely. Staying up late every night was not a problem if he had daytime to sleep. The sleep was fleeting for a great many reasons. Today, it was having to meet his guy to pick up a bag of tabs to move. That meant a drive to Meridian, Mississippi and back, a three-hour trip. His older sister's son was having his second birthday so that meant stashing the tabs in the trunk, buying some random beeping toy and a gift certificate for McDonald's and making an appearance at her and her husband's place with a crowd of her friends who did not take to him easily. Serena was a church secretary at a big Baptist outfit up in Trussville. All of the women hemming and hawing over jumpers and "learning devices" that oddly enough still looked like toys were "saved" and whatnot. Not especially interested in him after a mere glance of his style and attire. Fuck 'em, was his normal response. Not very Christian. He stayed long enough for candles and cake, made small talk with his father and mother until his father jokingly acted ghetto to him to belittle him in front of the audience. Riled, he feigned an excuse to leave and got away. After riding back down to Homewood, Janks paid two months ahead on the payment for his teal green 1985 Caprice, got the ride detailed, bought beer and Kool's, called up a lady friend for some fun. Ended up having a few of his boys drop by not too long after she left for a few hours of Playstation and blunts, drank all of his beer and smoked all of his squares. Managed to catch a few hours before his pager blew up incessantly as regulars started getting their orders together. Before eight, he had most of the bigger orders done. By ten, the subsequent add-ons to the regulars' orders were done, the "three more of those we talked about, some more friends need to hook up" ones. By 10:15, he was standing in Lustins, dropping singles and pairs into palms as fast as he could. By midnight, he was down to thirty in his pocket and another twenty in the car. The dope was Israeli-made, legit, MDMA. Not the concoctions that basement chemists crumpled together and sold. The power of the dose was well received. It was the only brand he bought from his connection. The wafers were called "Davie Angels," named because of the star of David's stamped on them and the fact they would send you to the clouds. Janks surveyed the dance floor, his ears usually averse to the trance-dance floatie melodies his clientele preferred. He was no stranger to the allure of what he peddled and had danced his share of jigs under the influence. But he was into gangsta rap, trying very hard to be considered a hardass amongst his peers. Floating in some smiling ocean of flailing arms like some pansy-ass hippie was not for him. Dope-dealing was hardcore shit. Janks looked the part as best he could. One nice perk was that gangstas got the women, though. Feeling the need to get clear of Lustins and into the bed soon, he looked over the herd. A hardass beat kicked in through the speakers. He recognized Nine Inch Nails but did not know the song and even if he had, that fuckin DJ Tool up in the booth would cut up a song mercilessly with samples and tempo changes so a song was unintelligible to all except those who felt its sonic effect rather than heard it. Janks' eyes swept the floor and locked on a dome of platinum blond hair whipping the air with little pigtails. The girl was short, wearing a black miniskirt and some kind of black sleeveless blouse that had a great many buttons undone. Immediately he saw she had no bra on, the tight blouse holding her ample tits in place as best it could. She wore an assortment of necklaces, like Madonna would do. Bare hands, though, unadorned. And black knee-high cowgirl boots! He thought those were hot on her. And despite her grooving to the music, her eyes were on his. When she was certain she had his attention, she danced for him. Curio stared Janks down, forcing a stare at him she knew had to affect his mind, subconsciously willing him to her. The music had her. She would have him. Reznor had them all. The tempo was ferocious. Wild tendrils enveloped the crowd. For the night, the owners rigged up some pipes and periodically ran some hand grinders across the metal to shoot some sparks around. She felt the euphoria heave inside of her as Janks latched onto her. Her clit throbbed, sweat glistened on her chest. Necklaces swung on a pendulum in front of her breasts as she clutched them fast to her. She breathed deeply, savoring the taste in the air. Knowing she was about to end an ugly life not worth existing in the middle of the milieu of beautiful souls she immediately felt connections with all around, it exalted her. Her limbs twisted and stabbed into the air to the music, unhindered by her direct mental will. The synapses were melded with the carnal arena. He moved toward her, no coyness or humility needed from him or her. Both knew the score in Lustins. He, with his brute clumsiness and churlish ghetto attitude aimed toward her as just some ho, walked up to claim what was his. She, with her dark eyes and licking lips, sweat across her brow and ground teeth, accepting her man for the evening. In the back of her mind was the fact that the boss decreed Janks a threat. A threat to the boss meant a threat to Moses and Curio directly. Threats were intolerable. He walked to her, framed in keyboard synthesizers, Reznor screeching, "IT TOOK YOU, TO MAKE ME REALIZE. IT TOOK YOU, TO MAKE ME SEE THE LIES," over and over again until the powerful refrain dipped away into a hallucinatory halo of sweeping notes with the unceasingly crunching back-beats keeping the time while the ravers' mind ponder the lighter flourishes. Then his hands were on his shoulders, his lips to hers suddenly. It snapped her back to as much reality as she could muster. His mouth reeked of trashy Kools, a hint of pork skins, and a long while between toothpaste doses. Wincing, Curio broke off the embrace, trying to play it off into dancing. She ground her groin into his thigh, gripping him around his surprisingly bony hips beneath his baggy, saggy jeans and stifling a laugh at the find. Poor ass wigger. Where's the rest of you? Baby, you need to eat some red beans and rice once in a while. "My name is Janks. You one sexy ass lady, baby. You straight for the night?" His voice was high, shrilly keyed unless he put the ghetto gangsta bass into it for effect as he did without thinking now. "I know you, Janks. We met?" Feigning annoyance only halfway, she leaned close to his ear as he mistook her intentions and offered his neck for her lips. In the temporary glare of a lingering vari-light, she could make out hickies all over his pale skin. Fucking nasty bastard. You're so dead.! "I'm Dawn. Erica's friend? You hooked us up on some Davies last weekend. My hair was red last weekend though..." Curio led him on with circles of her hands and a "Come on, idiot!" cutting of her dark eyes. "No shit! Hell I ain't recognize you girl!" The name Erica resonated with him immediately. She was a regular customer and a bisexual who brought an extra player with her from time to time. He sized up Dawn, remembering they came by his crib just long enough to score and wave bye-bye since they had friends waiting. "Where Dawn at, yo?" He looked around the dance floor. "She'll be here in a little while. She hooking up some things." Curio almost had to scream in his ear over the music. "Fuck I'm feelin good! You got any more of those left?" "I gotta shitload, baby. What y'all doing later?" "Well, her idea was we were going over to the Studio for a while, but I've done got fucked up in here and I got so fuckin horny it feels like I pissed myself." Curio raised her voice to almost Valley Girl range. Pretty, horny and dumb. Pretty, horny and dumb...here doggy, doggy. Come fetch the stick! "That's fuckin sexy. Damn!" Immediately, Curio knew she had him hooked. Fish in the barrel... "Dawn told me a secret about you." "Waz dat?" "You can eat pussy like no one she ever had. And that ho had a many. You up to it, baby? Care to get down wit yo bad self?" "Shit yeah. Ima work of motherfuckin art on a pussy, girlie. I'm fucking da Vinci. I show you if you ack right." He pulled her to him, his hands raising up her thigh and clumsily finding her crotch as she kept dancing. She stared at him with a cold stare he misinterpreted for rolling intensely. Then she reached under her own skirt and pulled the g-string knots loose. Then she pressed the sopping triangle of the fabric to his face. He made a show of wiping his brow with the panty and smelling it. "Told you!" She laughed and bit her lip. He wadded the panty with his free hand, parting her lips with the other. She was slick inside. He stirred her, excitement welling inside him. He gulped visibly at his good luck. The woman was manna from heaven. And later she would have a friend who was not as fine as she was but freaky as possible and the trio would have themselves a blast, he was certain. "Man," Janks wished he had a friend to see what he was about to get into, "this job has mad perks, yo!" Curio did not have to fake being turned on. Peaking, being touched on his clit, the music and the scene enveloping her, she was on cloud nine. And it was time to get paid and have her patiently waiting Moses receive the full measure of her pleasure. She could wait no longer. Eyes were on them. She could feel them. Witnesses, though they would be invariably hard to question, were all around them. "Let's go outside, baby! I don't wanna wait for Erica! I want some lickin from that badass tongue!" "A-ight. What you say yo name was again?" Curio smiled from the corner of her mouth. "Dawn!" She gave her best supermodel smile and a bubbly toss of her face for punctuation. "I gotta go out to the car for some product, Dawn. Come out there wit me and I get you straight. Maybe you get me straight, too." "Guide me out, baby. I'm not seeing too straight. God, I'm fucked up! Are my eyes crossed?" He looked at her face. "You aint got no eyes, girlie. Looks like two bullet holes on yo nose. Some good shit, ain't it?" Janks grabbed her two arms and held them to his hips as he aimed for the door. Curio Phelonie could only smile a blissful grin through her clenched teeth as shudders of ecstasy crawled up her spine. It was great shit! Moses Holliday sat in a rented Ford Taurus parked in a common parking area nearby. He had a view of the east side of Lustins and the entire parking lot. The lot had four streetlights seated dead center on each side. Two of the bulbs were shot out with a pellet gun earlier that day, occluding the rear of the site. Janks' green Monte Carlo was luckily parked in the dark zone. Pure luck, but Janks liked to park in the same area and that was a known thing to them. He sat in the Taurus for an hour after dropping Curio off a few blocks away and watching her swish away from him in her short skirt and boots. Chain-smoking Winstons, he slumped in the seat as club-goers looked for somewhere to park as they disembarked for carousing around Five Points South in the club district of Birmingham. Moses watched them from the dark interior, the coal of a cigarette the only sign of life inside. Some he figured were heading for Lustins and maybe the other techno club, The Studio. Many he figured for patrons of Dave's, the yuppie joint. Some were headed for Zydeco, the Studio, the Hippodrum. Some were couples heading for dinner at the Ruby Tuesday or The Mill, restaurants sitting in the middle of the area. There were other lesser bars as well, plus the Music Hall just a ways down Twentieth Street. Nearly two hours after he let her out with his usual cautions, Curio reappeared, her hands clutching the shirttail of Janks as he led her, stumbling and giddy into the parking lot. They made a beeline for the Monte Carlo. Janks' eyes darted all around, looking for gankers or gawkers. Moses gripped a .22 pistol with a silencer tightly, slinking slowly downward as he reclined the seat. The red wig Curio had worn when she got a look at Janks' apartment covered the gun in his lap. Janks noticed him and Moses froze. Fuck! He cursed not being more invisible. Curio looked at him, her mouth falling open as she laughed at something Janks was saying. Moses raised the wig with his gun-hand and pumped the hair up and down ritualistically, laying his head back against the headrest, hoping the ruse would work. "Who the fuck is that motherfucker looking at?" Janks saw an older man look him over and then try to play it off as he eased back in the seat. "I'll cap his muthafuckin ass." Curio looked over at the Taurus, saw Moses see her and started laughing. As if Janks had a clue about whom has was threatening. Dumbass wigger... A mop of hair was occasionally visible by the steering wheel. "Oh shit! That's a faggot getting head in there!" Janks laughed aloud as Curio stumbled behind him over the pot-holed parking lot. She was glad it had not rained. Mud on her sexy new black leather boots would not be kosher. They were custom made for her. Set Moses back a wad. "How you know he's a faggot? Shit! I see that head, too!" She laughed as Moses played the part. "Nasty ass fairy. That faggot bar is on the other side of the fence over there about two blocks over. They come over here to suck each other's dicks a lot." "You ever put that tongue to a dick, baby?" Curio giggled as he snapped an angry look back at her. "What?" she chuckled. "You done kissed a kittycat after you been all up in it before I bet. You tasted you, homeboy." "Fuck that. I ain't no faggot. My ride is up here." He dug out his keys. "God, I'm so fuckin horny. Erica ate me out last week but I ain't felt no man in a long time." A lie. "I'm man enough, baby girl. Let me hit that and you'll know that." Curio looked into the window of the Chevy. "That's a big back seat, baby. I'm so fuckin wound up, I bet we use all of it. "Oh hell yeah!" Janks could hardly believe his luck. The girl was superfly. She was already popping buttons from beneath her tits. She radiated sex. He loved her supple face although certain complexion far too dark for the curtain to match the drapes. Not that he had detected drapes when he felt her up in the club. Janks remembered her some more as the redhead with Erica the week before. She had not said a word to him, just looking at him coldly as Erica paid and made small talk. Probably not sure how much to act like she wanted me in front of Erica. No problem with you wantin' it on the D-L. I make it worth your while, ho. Janks popped the locks and Curio dove across the back seat, rolling over on her back as Janks looked around one more time. "Come get it, baby. Shut the door so we don't have that light on." Janks took one long, hard look at the Taurus, certain the guy getting blown in it was preoccupied. Then he climbed inside and sat between her legs as he pulled the door shut. Curio raised her skirt up, showing her shaved lips to him. "That's a sexy pussy, ain't it, nigga?" Her eyes were black coals in the dark car. He could barely make her out with her black clothes but her tan skin radiated in the faint glow of faraway lights. "The sexiest baby." He popped the button on his baggy cargo pants and unzipped the fly as she slid up against the far side of the car, spreading her legs wide, draping her heels on the backrest and the driver's seat. "I want you to suck me off. You like doing that shit, dontcha?" He almost called her bitch but held that back. "I love it. Bring that big gangsta dick up here, white boy. Show Mama what her and Erica get to take turns ridin' later!" Janks was erect. Her laxness toward the scenario was refreshing. He wondered what his world would have been without the invention of ecstasy. Her hand suddenly thrust inside his pants. Startled almost, he leaned back as she jerked his boxers down and grabbed him fully. "Damn baby, that's a big ole ginger dick, ain't it! Shit, I'm impressed!" In the throes of her euphoric peak, Curio actually was impressed. The boy was not too tiny. She expected much less fro his bony frame. She throbbed inside for release. Inside she reviled him as a person. But the situation was well in hand, literally. There was no reason not to take a few liberties with the quarry. "Bring it up here, baby." Janks lumbered clumsily toward her, fumbling through his pants binding his ankles while trying not to fall across her and moved on his knees using the leg space between the back seat and the front. Finally, he managed to semi-hover his cock near enough to her face for her to make a go of sucking him. He propped his hands on the headrest of the back seat and the roof and she sucked him greedily but not with panache. He did not rate a real showing. Horny as he was, her technique was enough to make him come within a minute. Her mouth never hesitated as he unloaded in it. She felt him spurt and closed her mind to whose load she had flowing into her. At the end of the day, the semen of one she loved tasted not so different from one she did not. She hoped to suck it badly for him, at least enough for him to get flustered after a bit and be then routed down to her wet pussy anxious to have its due. But, he was fast on the draw and that could not be helped. She swallowed so she did not get any on her black silk blouse. It was bought at an awesome consignment shop in Biloxi and having some dead wigger's jizz sprayed on it was not going to fucking happen. Moses And Curio And The Raving Wigg "Lick it, Janks baby. Mama needs to get her nut now. I'm so fuckin wet for you." She was wet. Killing made her so wet now. And it was almost time. Janks, breathing hard from being sucked as forcefully as he ejaculated, wallowed down between her legs, finally getting a workable angle and going to town. Erica was being truthful when she told Curio...with a knife to her throat and Moses flicking his finger against a large syringe full of cooked up Israeli ecstasy and pure coke to put her out of the witness box forever...that Janks had one big ass, bad ass tongue and could use it. She writhed as Janks did his best. She was burning for the orgasm. He went heavy on the clit and she tickled one off almost immediately, screaming until she gnawed on a seatbelt strap as he tickled her vagina with a fingertip. "Oh fuck, baby! Oh fuck! Oh fuck!" She scooted back farther, allowing him room to lie on his belly between her legs. He cupped her ass under his hands and lifted her pelvis to his mouth. Curio locked her ankles over his head, snuggly holding his head between her smooth thighs. Her hands held the boots together as he tried to prove him worthy of the rep. She felt him go inside her with the tongue. Gene Simmons, eat your heart out. Wigger boy got mad skills, yo! Da-yum! He went full inside her, deep enough for his teeth to press almost painfully into her hood. Her spot was being touched, his motion was thorough and her trap was sprung. "Like that, baby! Shit! Right there, ooo right there! Don't move, just like that!" Her hands crept into her boots, gripping a hidden handle in each. Janks moaned as he kept up the pressure inside her, his tongue starting to tire but determined to see her through. I bet this bitch squirts, yo! Ain't no nigga eat a pussy like me, goddammit! She loaded up inside for her release. He kept lapping her spot, managing to arch a hand around and dip his thumb against her clit as he kept in tune with her building moans. "Oh shit! Here I come! We're there! We're there!" She felt the orgasm at its precipice and nearly crossing the marker into a nearly unknown heightening of the broiling spasms. Janks pushed his mouth another centimeter deeper, reaching deep as he could with his tongue. Her hands came free from the black boots, clenching an ice pick in each of her tiny hands. "Fuck youuu, yeaaaahh! I'm comiiing!" Curio's pussy exploded as she jammed both spikes fully into the back of his skull violently, sinking them to the hilt in the medulla area just a few inches above the neck. Her strength pushed his head forward into her that much more. Janks' tongue seemed to grow another inch as the reflexive jolt of his brains being stirred made it flop wildly inside of her. His arms went weak and then seized spasmodically. The tongue flopped wildly in her, too. It only made her come that much harder. She exploded with her juices on his face, a puddle leaking from his mouth and running into the gap between the seat as she screamed unabashedly in pleasure, her hands churning back and forth with the handles to sever the control center of his mind. After a few seconds, he went completely limp. She did as well. Curio had known pleasurable orgasms as much as any woman, but she would never admit to anyone that one particular orgasm topped any before or after in intensity. And it was icing a ginger-ass wigger that did it. She pulled his head back by his red afro. His lifeless eyes were wide open in shock, his tongue now limp and dangling like a lazy hound's, dripping idly. Curio nodded and smirked at him. "Who woulda thunk it? Not bad, my nigga. Not bad attall." The car door opened and in the blast of the interior light, Moses' torso and legs appeared. A long-barrel revolver with a silencer poked inside and he peered in at her. Curio released Janks head and it flopped back mouth-down onto her crotch. "Ooo!" She flinched and giggled. It tickled. Moses saw the handles sticking from the skull and jammed the pistol into a cargo pocket of the black BDU pants he wore. "Did he hurt you?" "No baby. Just a little tingly. Roll this skinny fucker over off me please. I'm a lil woozy." Moses reached in and flipped Janks one-handed over onto the floorboard. "Can you walk? We're public, baby. Let's roll the hell outta here." Curio breathed deeply, still rolling her ass off and trying to unwind from the climax. "I'm good. I'm good. The boy had mad skills, yo." Grunting, she pitched forward and Moses pulled her by her shoulders from the car. Setting her down on her wobbly feet, he pulled Janks pants out from inside the car. "Shit that felt good!" Curio wobbled and looked up at all the pretty stars. Moses pulled out a baggy of tabs and other assorted pharmaceuticals and dropped them into a cargo pocket. He found the .380 in a pocket alongside her damp panties- which he handed to her and watched her jam them down in a boot. "Ima need a hotel towel down there after that, baby. A thong ain't gonna cut it." Smirking, Moses took the gun as well as the wad of money spread around the pockets. A quick search inside the console revealed another bag of tabs and even more money zipped neatly in a bank bag. "Motherfucker had a good week. More money than he could count, got laid..." He looked at Curio as she smoothed down her skirt and pulled the blond wig from her head. She tossed it on Janks dead ass casually as she preened her own short black coif. "He did alright until he died..." Curio wiped the corner of her mouth in the Chevy's side mirror, "Car!" She saw a stubby SUV sitting with its turn signal blinking on the road by the entrance. Moses slammed the door and the light went out. A car passed by on the main road and then a black Explorer turned into the parking lot. Curio leapt onto Moses, wrapping her legs around his waist, kissing her lover hard while caressing the back of his head. The Explorer rolled slowly past, full of four young women who hooted and cheered the PDA as they circled the full lot. "That's so fucking hot, y'all!" The shotgun passenger was enthralled by it. "Get a room and get, it, oooonnn!" The driver chanted. There were no spaces available so the Ford exited and disappeared. "Jam out wit' your clam out, baby!" Another hooted as she exhaled a cigarette from the window and raised a cheers with a longneck . Curio smacked her lips as she separated from Moses. "God, I taste wigger dick." Wiping his mouth, Moses scowled and winced. "Welcome to the sisterhood, baby! High five!" She laughed as he scowled. "I hear you, ex-con. Don't give me that line. You getting nostalgic for Big Buford in cell block six, ain't ya, Tex?" Curio giggled and hugged him. "Not hardly." Moses pulled a small duffel bag from beneath the car. He faked sniffling in mock shame at the recollection of some imagined ass rape and rubbd his ass. "And his name was Big Dick Stevie, not Buford." Moses opened the door and unzipped the bag. Curio pulled her Luger pistol and watched for anyone who may be looking, holding it inconspicuously by her side. Moses pulled out two three-liter drink bottles full of kerosene and unscrewed the lids. Moisture on the vinyl caught his eye. "Damn. You came a quart, didn't ya?" "I'm feeling a need to come more than that, sexy. This shit just now getting me peakin' just right. Crazy how good I'm feelin. I could do with some serious fucking from you just to let me down from that shit in there. Hot damn, I could get used to that! And that X is some bonafide ass-kickin in a pill." "The boss believes in the best whenever possible." Moses dumped a bottle all over the inside of the Monte Carlo, drenching the backseat and the body. He took a swig of the kerosene and swished it around his mouth, even gargling for effect. Curio retched as he spewed it deliberately in a stream into the car and laughed about it. "God, that's nasty!" "No where near as nasty as that motherfucker's dick. I oughta make you douche with this shit before I touch that lovable squeezebox of yours again. You take too many chances like that, you gonna be pissin fire. And me with you." "Yes, Daddy." She spoke like a little schoolgirl as she hugged his waist. "We get back to the hotel, I'll get all clean and fresh for Daddy and be fucked up on X. And Daddy can do whatever he wants to his lil Curio and she'll love every minute of it." "So noted." He emptied the remaining bottle on the body entirely and tossed the bottles inside. "Get in the car, baby." He watched her swagger and stagger unevenly on her feet toward the Taurus and manage to get inside. Satisfied with a long look around that they were not being watched, he flipped open a dime-store Zippo knockoff and caught it afire. With a casual toss of the lighter into the car and a kick of the door to shut it, the interior began burning, giving off an electric blue glow from within. Curio cranked the Taurus. Moses dashed to the Taurus and threw it in gear as he pulled the .22 from his pocket. They drove quickly around the semi-circle, Moses pausing to shoot out the two driver-side windows to give the fire some air. Then they made the right on Highland Avenue, made their way to Red Mountain Expressway and disappeared into the Alabama night.