Story of the Day: 6-22-11


The Storm Fighters of Courage

Episode 21: Back in Washington

“So is this what you do, then?”

The Commandant turned away from the window and flashed an impenetrable glance at the woman sitting on his bed. Nadine (or was it Jackie?) sat straight up, her back propped against the headboard, her naked legs resting neatly atop the covers like two chopsticks waiting to be split. She crossed her arms over her breasts in an attempt at discretion, but the beckoning look on her face told him all he needed to know. He loved this moment; the moment of unknowing.

With a wry smile, he grabbed his cigar from the ashtray on the nightstand and took a deep puff. The smoke filled his mouth, intensifying the licorice aftertaste of his morning bourbon. He lifted his glass and swirled the ice cubes around it with a satisfying clink. This may not be Heaven, he thought, but it sure as hell ain’t Hell.

“Yes,” the Commandant finally answered. “This is indeed what I do. And from the looks of it, it’s what you do, too.”

Nadine/Jackie relaxed her arms, exposing her brown nipples just enough to send the Commandant into a momentary state of arousal. Before she could notice, his steel-tight mind willed his erection away. In seduction, as in war, the adversary must never know how badly you want it.

“It’s not what I do,” Nadine/Jackie purred. “It’s who I am. Now drop those silly distractions and get into bed with me.”

The Commandant chuckled and took another puff of his cigar. She was a live one, all right. Assuming she could keep a secret, he might just have to invite her back.

A clicking on the parquet floor told him someone was trying to get his attention. He leaned down and fished around in his pants pocket until he found his phone. He checked the number – blocked. Whoever was calling better have something important to say. Anyone who knew the Commandant knew that when the scrunchie was on the doorknob, it was go time.

“This better be good,” the Commandant said into the phone.

“Maybe not as good as that little princess you’ve got in your bed right now,” the voice on the other end said. “Is she even legal, Commandant? I’ve seen more pubic hair on a potato.”

“She’s legal, but she’s clean,” the Commandant answered. “Now I just have two questions for you: who the fuck is this and how do you want to die?”

The voice laughed. “Who the fuck am I?” he said. “I’ll give you two guesses.” There was a rustling on the other end of the phone. “Say it!” the voice screamed at someone else in the room. “Let’s get some pie!” the responding voice wailed faintly.

“Snog-Dog?” the Commandant asked.

“Guess again,” the voice replied.

And in a flash, it hit him, reaching through the phone and into his memories like the electric fingers of a thunderstorm. It was a voice he thought he’d never hear again, a voice he thought was locked up deep in the asshole of a psych ward in San Quentin. A voice at once strange and compelling, engaging yet reptilian. It was a voice the Commandant barely remembered and a voice he could never forget.

“Fucking Hazzard,” the Commandant whispered.

“Not just Hazzard,” the voice answered. “Mark Hazzard. And if you ever want to see your little vanity army alive again, I need money.”

“How much?” the Commandant asked.

“$300 million should do the trick,” Mark Hazzard replied in a lolling drawl. “Oh, it shouldn’t be that hard. I’m sure you know people.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” the Commandant barked. “They’re a bunch of geriatrics! Go fuck yourself and stop wasting my time with this bullshit.”

And with that, the Commandant hung up the phone and had himself a well-deserved breakfast of pussy pie.

Next episode: Meanwhile, Back in the Cave

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